Alien Insurrection
by Jago-Dakari
Summary: An agricultural colony in the Frontier region of human space is under attack by the fanatical Xeno Extremists who have every intention of sacrificing their world to further the spread of the Xenomorphs they revere. A bloody insurrection is at hand and it is up to a determined squad of Colonial Militiamen to thwart this splinter cult's plans.
1. Chapter 1

Hey all.

to those who have been waiting for an update on Slayer's Vengeance, i have recently started to get back into it after a long leave of absence to build up my Chronicles of Llancaria universe. i already have my first novella to be published in Ebook form as soon as i get a good cover for it, i have finished a short story and have a novel in the works. but, i have felt that i have been straying from the thing that i have

Now, i know that i have always posted a chapter on christmas but, due to other things happening in RL, i think that it may be a miss this time. But, to make up for it i have something substantial for you all. and that is my side story Alien Insurrection. it was originally going to be a exclusive but i have decided to make it my gift to you all. for sticking with me for so long. it is not finished , the side effect of having so many projects at once, but this one is nearer completion as i have always intended it to be shorter then Slayer's Vengeance.

So anyway, here is my gift to you all and i wish you all a merry Christmas and a happy new year.

\- Jago

* * *

ALIEN INSURRECTION

Date- August 29, 2242, 45 AEI (After Earth Infestation)

Planet- Amaethon IV, United Earth Federation agricultural colony, Arawn Sector, Frontier Worlds.

Planetary capital- Caer Styfnig, Central Continent.

Planet Population: 8367 colonists, 2500 Enlisted Military Personnel.

Current status- Clear of xenomorph presence. Non-existent target of Yautja hunts or pirate raids. Minimal concern. Currently under seasonal planetary storms.

* * *

Life in the Frontier Worlds was not an easy lifestyle choice. But those who signed up were fully aware of the dangers. The recruiters made that perfectly clear the moment the prospective colonists walked through the door. This was nothing like the worlds of the Rim or the Core Systems which were long established before the Infestation of Earth in 2192. These worlds on the boundary of explored space were one of mystery and adventure, hearkening back to the days of the Old West where brave men and women carved out their own slice of the unknown.

Although it was a hard life, that of backbreaking work and long hours on a planet far from human space, it had benefits. It was the opportunity for a fresh start in life on a new world. A chance to step away from the shackles of the old world and begin life anew. Ever since the Infestation of Earth, there had been many who had lost everything to the xenomorphs. Many had lost their homes, their livelihoods and, for many cases, their entire families. But, as history proved time and time again, humanity rose stronger from the ashes of near extinction.

Survival of the fittest as nature demanded.

Amaethon IV, named by it's original Welsh colonists after the ancient god of Agriculture and one of the so called Celtic Worlds, was one of the breadbaskets of the Frontier and considered one of the more desirable postings on offer by the Extrasolar Colonisation Administration. The planet itself was reminiscent of Wales with it's rolling plains, deep valleys and high mountains. While this may provoke images of an idyllic lifestyle, the truth was that Amaethon IV was in fact a muddy ball in the void of space.

While the planet itself was rich and fertile making it a prime choice for agriculture, the frequent rainfall would quickly wash away any such delusions. The early attempts at establishing viable colonies on it's surface were quickly and literally washed down the drain as soon as the first storms roared into being. But, with perseverance and a bit of forward planning, colonies are now situated on high ground and plateaus of solid rock, heavily fortified for defence against the dangers that plagued the Frontier. They have since taken on the old welsh name of Caer, 'Castle' in English, to identify each prominent settlement.

Smaller farming communities are situated in the outskirts of each Caer and it is these communities that worked the majority of the fields that would feed dozens of worlds in the Frontier. Whole oceans of grains, islands of vegetables and orchid forests laden with fruit dotted the planet's surface. The introduction of Terran flora had worked wonders, and thorough planning and control ensured that the native wildlife was not supplanted or eradicated as what happened many times in earth history. Amaethonion apples for example produced a cider that surpassed anything that could be brewed in the Frontier. And the colonists had learned to maximise the limited window of the seasons to ensure that their hard work was not washed away. The results were apparent as Amaethonian produce now fed over a dozen Frontier Worlds.

In a stark contrast to most Frontier Worlds, where bloody skirmishes with pirates or yautja hunters was a fact of life, Amaethon IV has never been attacked or raided in it's history. Likely because there was nothing on Amaethon to warrant such a response by a rival power, apart from the horrendous weather. Its population was sparse by comparison to other worlds, nor did it have a substantial military presence. As the colonists would often say: Who would want to raid a ball of mud?

Well, as the following account will tell, Fate can be easily tempted.

24:39 PM

It was the end of summer on Ameathon IV. And that meant one thing to the colonists of this Frontier World. Rain. Lots of Rain. Gone were the days of relatively stable sunlight in the summer and now the prelude to a dreary and sodden existence under grey clouds until the end of spring. But compared to other worlds of the Frontier, Amaethon IV was a virtual paradise. Even if most of the planet was a ball of mud for three quarters of the year.

In the central continent, the core of colonised territory on the planet, the harvest was over and the colonists were preparing themselves for the autumn rains. The worst rainfall of the year, though one could say that those up north suffered most in that the rain is replaced by snow drifts many times the height of a man. But at least the snow could be dug through and the Northern Caer resembles something like a rabbit warren. Rather then a pig sty as the rest of the planet became.

But when the rain was not falling, Amaethon IV was a peaceful jewel in a galaxy that is more often then not in conflict between the United Earth Federation and the many alien races of the galaxy.

In one of the forests that dotted the continent, a four tracked tractor rumbled along the dirt road, now nothing but a sodden trail of mud that was intent of bogging the lumbering agricultural vehicle down. The colonist at the wheel, tightly wrapped in a large hooded poncho and goggles, braved the torrential downpour that was being unleashed from the heavens, the metal cage of the driver's cabin proving minimal at keeping most of the rain out. A cigar was jammed between tightly clenched lips, stubbornly still lit despite the weather.

Behind him, being hauled along with grim determination, was a large tracked trailer covered with thick tarpaulins to keep out at least most of the rain from water-logging it's contents. The mud from the path was building up on it's tracks, churning up like butter in each tread before being expelled like waste from a burrowing worm.

The large trees, reminiscent of the deciduous forests of northern Europe, towered over him at both sides of the road like a tall wooden palisade, dotted with low stone walls. The sky above him was typically grey and cloudy, permeated with the dim glow of the nearly set sun. Nearly the end of another twenty-eight hour day. And nearly two thirds into the planet's four hundred and twenty-eight day year.

Looking down at his dashboard's instruments, the colonist saw that the gradient was getting steeper the further he went up the trail. That meant he was reaching the end of his route. Just through the trees and over the peak, then he would be home free. That was until he noticed that he had stopped moving forward and was starting to go backwards with a loud squelching of mud.

The colonist grumbled loudly as the tractor failed to find purchase on the now deluging trail, causing the heavy machine to slide slowly back down before shunting the trailer back when it hit with a reverberating impact. He pulled a few levers and with a loud grinding whirr of gears, more segmented tracks were deployed on the tractor's flanks, spreading it's weight even more. With this extra bit of grip, the tractor found purchase in the stodgy surface and resumed it's trudge against gravity and the flowing rainwater.

The colonist stuck a hand out of the cabin and gave the dark sky a customary middle finger in defiance. That gesture was answered almost immediately by loud clash of lightning several kilometres away.

"You can dish it but you can't take it!" The colonist yelled up at the sky as he continued his trudge up the hill.

After many sodden minutes and several juddering slides down the hill, the tractor finally reached the peak. The driver wiped his goggles of rain as he saw his destination ahead, illuminated by it's lights of habitation.

The colony of Caer Styfnig, translated literally from the Welsh word 'Stubborn', is the largest and oldest colony on the planet, the planetary capital and only original to have succeeded. Hence the name. Situated on a plateau of solid granite twenty kilometres long, thirty wide and was over kilometre in size, this was a prime location to establish a colony. Much like the ancient Celt tribes in Europe, the high ground was highly preferable for settlement, allowing a clear view all around for miles. It's towering walls of both native stone and fabricated metal served well to keep out unwanted pests and some of the downpour that was even now starting to drop down at an angle from a sudden shift in the wind. Beyond the walls were the large angular metal bunkers of the original prefabricated buildings, supplanted by newer buildings of native stone and wood as the Caer grew and upgraded over the years. Some of which still had the original Weyland-Yutani logo painted on some panels.

The spaceport, protected by a large aerodrome over three kilometres in circumference, was located at the far end of the plateau and also built into the cliffs, separated from Caer Styfnig by five kilometres of open plains criss-crossed with roads, drainage ditches and outlying shelters. As soon as the storms were over, or at least reduced to a hopefully mild drizzle, the first of the freighters would be able to depart. And that could be anywhere between a few weeks to a few months judging by the storm's current state.

The tractor rumbled into one of the massive barns that dotted the colony's outskirts, trailing a steady stream of rain and mud behind it. Inside the thankfully dry interior, colonists were seen hauling up bundles of wheat, oats and rye, placing them into large storage bins which were then wheeled into massive shipping containers. A pair of P-6000 powerloaders, their servos whining with exertion, were hauling the containers onto massive flatbed transports as their drivers checked their manifests on their canopy screens.

In one corner of the barn was a large trapdoor and colonists were seen pulling at chains that led down into what would be a massive cellar. Being winched up were large cured carcasses of a native animal to Amaethon IV that bore a striking resemblance to Terran cattle. These were in fact Aurochs, named after the extinct ancestor to all domesticated cattle, measuring at ten feet long and weighing over five hundred kilograms on average. And much like cattle in the past, Aurochs have been bred and settled on many a world wherever humanity went.

Auroch jerky is a popular snack food in the Frontier.

The colonist brought the tractor into one of the open bays and promptly applied the handbrake with a loud clanking of gears. Steam seeped out from it's bonnet as the engine hissed and cracked from the dissipating heat and evaporating rainwater that trickled in the gaps between it's panelling and hissed back out. He pulled out from his poncho a datapad, thankfully dry and working, and punched in a few keys before nodding.

This was the last harvest from the fields before the autumn rains washed it all away. It had taken one bad harvest twenty years ago to hammer that lesson in the colonists' minds. Few sights can match that of seeing your livelihood being literally washed away in a deluge of flood water.

"Llewellyn, you're finally here!" the barn foreman called out, walking up.

The driver pulled back his hood, revealing crew cut charcoal hair, closely cropped beard and shifted his goggles up from his green eyes onto his forehead. His finally pulled out his cigar from his clenched teeth and stretched his jaw with a crack.

"Why is it that I get tractor duty whenever it chucks it down?!" he fumed. "I'm a loader pilot, not a submariner!"

"Quit your griping. Jenson was off sick, you know that." the foreman reminded.

Llewellyn found that difficult to believe, considering he was originally suppose to be on powerloader duty. Out of the rain. He reckoned this had to do with his unusual lucky streak during the nightly poker games and a sore loser who happens to be your superior.

But, he was here now and he had the whole night ahead of him.

"That's the last shipment from the fields." Llewellyn said, pointing to the hauler behind him. "Damn near lost it several times. Bloody rain." he cursed, taking a draft from his cigar.

The trailer behind him was continuing to trickle water from it's canopy and liquefied mud from it's tracks. Several colonists rushed over and quickly but carefully peeled back the tarpaulins to prevent the contents within from getting drenched. Inside were large bundles of wheat, rye and also buckets of root vegetables stacked in wooden crates.

"Lucky we got an early warning before the storms hit." the foreman praised.

Llewellyn was not as optimistic as he blew a large cloud of smoke from his mouth.

"Must have been good day. Normally we don't get the official warning until a few days into the storm." he recalled, tossing the datapad to the foreman.

The foreman caught the pad and quickly skimmed over the contents before nodding.

"Yep, all of it is here." he said before walking over to the trailer and pulling out a few ears of wheat. "Good batch too from the look of it." he praised, seeing the golden sheen from the cereal grains in the barn's ceiling lights.

"In which case, I bid you goodnight. I had more then enough showers today." Llewellyn farewelled, hopping from his sodden seat.

He landed on the dirt floor was a thud, both causing a small cloud of dust and secondly causing a small rainfall to pour from his poncho. He blew a waft of smoke from his mouth as he walked off, pulling up his hood and trailing smoke behind him.

"Just remember, the moment the rain stops, we're shifting to the port." the foreman reminded before walking towards the cellar.

"Don't worry, I won't be floored. I learned my lesson last time." Llewellyn assured as he stepped out into the rain once more.

26:39 PM

Llewellyn plodded through the now drizzling rain and mud lined streets, the hab units that served as the main housing for the colony towered over him, exterior lights filling the streets with a cold glow as he walked over to one of his most frequent dwellings. The smaller alleyways had a rudimentary network of tarpaulin roofs that helped to ensure that the alleys were not completely saturated and all the streets and paths had ample drainage so that the Cear would not flood and become an urban man-made lake.

He passed a couple of elder colonists who were sitting in the porch of one hab, smoking from their pipes and making smart comments about the weather. Along with the old custom of comparing their aches and who had the most accurate one for determining the coming of a storm. In this case it was between a knee and a foot and both were trying to outdo each other. Llewellyn made certain to hurry along before he got dragged into it.

After some more drudging in the rain and mud, Llewellyn paused outside the main entrance of the rustic-looking tavern, made of wood and stone in the manner of a traditional pub, looking up to see the neon sign illuminating the traditional wooden pub plaque that was swaying in the wind. On the plaque was a stylised rendition of the national symbol of Wales and the establishment's name was underneath in stylised script in both welsh and english.

 _Mae'r dafarn ddraig goch._

The Red Dragon inn.

Outside in the rain, he could the hear the garbled chaos of revellers inside, celebrating the end of another harvest. And he could smell the appetising stench of hearty comfort food and strong alcohol that wafted through open windows. The images of a hot meal forming in his mind caused his stomach to grumble audibly over the rain.

Llewellyn hummed in satisfaction of what his night would bring, puffing smoke from his mouth as he stepped up and walked through the porch, passing some drinking colonists loitering about, and out of the rain. The warmth inside was a welcome change to the cold drizzle he had been subjected too all day. Even if it was a bit humid.

The largest tavern and hotel in Caer Styfnig was buzzing with activity, more so then Llewellyn was expecting. Farmers and their farm hands were conversing over tall pints of beer and bowls of Auroch Jerky. A game of darts in session, along with a game of pool as the sound of connecting balls pierced the commotion. Colonists were getting meals of hearty food, both traditional Welsh cuisine and other dishes unique to the Frontier, to drive out the damp from their bones. And to round it all off, there was a band of colonists, playing traditional instruments and singing out a plethora of welsh songs, of which several revellers were joining in with varying degrees of skill.

Among the revellers were several colonial marshals, the main law enforcement of the colonies, and also, much to Llewellyn's surprise, active members of the Colonial Militia taking a reprieve from their duties.

The Colonial Militia are the main defence force of the colonies if the Colonial Army was unavailable or out of range. Essentially, much like the citizen armies of the ancient greek city states or the American colonies in the eighteenth century, every able bodied man and women would take up arms in the defence of the colony. Often, the Militia is supplemented by retired veterans of the armed forces who provide much needed training and expertise to whip civilians into a coherent fighting force. In times of actual war, outside of the usual skirmishes and raids that most militiamen get used to if ever, they fall under military jurisdiction and serve as light infantry support, using their knowledge of the surroundings to carry out guerilla operations.

Llewellyn himself was a member of the militia but considered it a pointless posting on a backwater world such as this. Throughout his life here, there had not been a xenomorph infestation, no yautja hunts or even the threat of some overambitious pirates.

In fact, the closest thing he got to an emergency was last month when a freighter that had drifted too close into Amaethon's gravity well and crash landed in the southern reaches. Too far for him to be a part of the recovery effort though so all he could do was read about it in the papers. But it was anyone's guess as to what the cargo freighter was doing out here in the Arawn sector of the Frontier.

Llewellyn walked up to the bar, passing a couple of colonists who were busy engaging in a bit of arm-wrestling with a growing crowd of spectators accumulating around them. Llewellyn reached the one stool that was not occupied and planted himself down on it, pulling down his hood. Next to him on his left, a farmer was busy regaling the Great Storm of '21 to an uninterested militiaman who was pretending to listen by nodding as he sipped his beer. To his right was a colonist who was busy counting coins and clips of notes, stacking them up into little columns and jotting down in a notebook. No doubt he was keeping track of his finances.

In the Frontier, cold hard cash was more useful then electronic transfers. Though each world had its own form of coinage, it was all the same in terms of value for the sake of convenience and simplicity.

And up at the bar he caught wind of local gossip and conversation.

"Have you ever been up to the Northern Caer?" a colonist in his forties asked a young farmhand of twenty.

"No, but I'm thinking of going up there next year." the farmhand said, taking a sip from his pint.

"Well don't, its a ghastly place!" the colonist warned with a shaking of the head. "Huge gangs of sinewy sods roaming the ice encrusted valleys and terrorising southerners with their atrocious close harmony singing. What's more, you need a half a pint of phlegm in your throat just to pronounce the Caer's name!"

Which coming from a Welshman was really saying something.

I can agree with that, Llewellyn thought with revulsion as memories of a visit up north. The singing kept me awake for weeks.

The loader pilot puffed on his cigar as he waited for service, looking around the tavern to see if any familiar faces were about. But with the amount of people in the Red Dragon tonight, he couldn't be sure. And he was seeing a lot of people who were not from this Caer. In fact, only two, maybe three tops, out of ten were from Caer Styfnig.

Lots of strangers tonight, he thought. I wonder what the deal is?

"Llewellyn, you look like shit." a rough voice pointed out.

He looked forward to the bar and he saw the owner of the tavern standing opposite him, dressed in a chequered shirt and a stained apron. A large man with sizable girth, muscular hairy arms and a big waxed moustache on his round face that was pointed up like a pair of horns.

"Thank you for noticing, Horace." Llewellyn sarcastically praised, pulling his cigar from his mouth.

Horace, or Horace the Ox as he was known for his prodigious strength in the arm wrestling scene, reached down behind the counter and produced a large bottle of dark liquid. Llewellyn's usual was a tall stout. He plunked it on the edge of the counter, expertly popping the cap off and handing over to him.

"Cheers." Llewellyn thanked, before taking a big gulp and sighing with overdue satisfaction.

Horace rapped his fingers on the counter as he watched the loader pilot down his much earned drink. He watched as the rainwater trickled down Llewellyn's poncho and onto the hardwood floor.

"So the weather was bad?" Horace asked, gesturing to the state of Llewellyn's poncho.

Llewellyn mused over the question, tossing his beer from hand to hand before he nodded.

"Actually, it was quite nice." Llewellyn remarked, pulling off his goggles and dumping them on the counter. "Might have been me but I think the rain was still warm."

Horace laughed bombastically at the joke, causing some bar patrons to pause their drinking as they watched the ox-man rock his head back. Llewellyn simply blinked at the show, his cigar drooping in his fingers.

"Then Him upstairs was really pissing on us." Horace declared before pointing at the cigar in his patron's fingers. "And how do you manage to keep that cigar lit in this weather."

Llewellyn juggled his cigar in his fingers before taking another draft as the onlookers resumed their own libations.

"Persistence and a lot of trail and error." he revealed, smoke seeping from between his teeth. "Years ago, it'd got extinguished the moment I stepped outside."

Llewellyn looked around the tavern, again taking in how many people were present tonight. And of how many foreign faces he could see.

"Quite a lot of revellers tonight." he pointed out with his bottle. "Many new faces too."

"Oh yeah, we've been getting hundreds of people from all the outlying farms in the south coming here."Horace agreed. "All my rooms are booked solid and every other hotel in the Caer. I even got people paying for a spot near the hearth for the night. I guess they want to be here for the big send off."

Llewellyn scoffed loudly at that. Why would anyone want to see the freighters depart this mud ball? He thought. Maybe out of envy that they were not the ones departing?

And that also brought up another question in regards to another group in the tavern.

"So, I've noticed that the militia are out in force today." he pointed with a thumb at the militiamen around one table.

"They have been since this morning." Horace said just as a colonist approached the bar and waved a credit chit. "Coming right up." he acknowledged, reaching for glasses and filling them up from the taps.

"Where's the Army?" Llewellyn asked. "Isn't it their job for garrison duty?"

"They went out on manoeuvres to the Wolds. Traditional live exercises between Caers." Horace explained, putting the filled glasses onto a tray.

Llewellyn took a swig from his bottle as Horace placed the tray on the counter and took the colonist's chit before swiping it into the scanner with a beep. The colonists tab had been updated with the current round of drinks.

"The whole garrison?" Llewellyn asked, disbelieving that the army would leave the colony unprotected.

Then again, who would want to attack a ball of mud?

"Not all." Horace assured, placing the chit on the tray and the colonist took the tray before walking back to his group. "We still got a platoon of regulars manning the walls, plus whoever is still at the base. But the administrator is activating several militia squads to fill in the gaps." he continued. "There'll be a town meeting in the morning. The customary good harvest speech and all."

Another thought popped into Llewellyn's head. And it was one that would likely interfere with his time off.

"Is my squad activated?" he asked, dreading the answer he was likely going to get.

"If you're part of Alpha, Beta or Gamma squads then yes." Horace all but confirmed.

Llewellyn cursed in welsh between his teeth as he bowed his head against the counter with a thud, his cigar smouldering on the alcohol infused wood. He was part of Beta Squad as a designated marksman.

"There goes my plans for the week." he lamented.

Horace leaned over gave him a hard but friendly pat on the back, causing Llewellyn to cough loudly with a loud plume of smoke shooting out of his mouth, followed by his cigar rolling on the counter. The farmer next to him paused his story as the cloud of smoke wafted into his vicinity, coughing loudly while the militiaman he was boring was thankful for the temporary interlude.

"Don't worry, you're not on duty yet." Horace reminded heartily. "You still got time to celebrate the harvest!"

Llewellyn looked up at the large bartender credulously as he picked up his stubbed cigar and extinguished it on his wet poncho with a damp hiss and a pitiful wisp of smoke.

"If you can call wringing out this and next year's rain from my boxers 'celebrating'." he joked sardonically, tossing his smouldering cigar into a nearby ashtray.

Horace wafted the drifting smoke away with a large hand and with a grin on his round face.

"I know what will cheer you up." he thought aloud. "Your favourite meal."

He walked over to the open window behind the bar and stuck his head through, giving those at the bar an unintentional view of his crack. Those at the bar covered their eyes or looked to the side.

"Ellen, get some _Tatws Pum Munud_ on the stove, please!" he shouted through the window. "Extra auroch!"

There was a notable pause before he got an equally loud reply.

"Coming right up!" Ellen called back.

Llewellyn shrugged as he took another gulp from his bottle as he waited for his meal. He juggled the bottle in his hand and heard the half drunk contents sloshing around. He decided that he was going a few more drinks before the night was over as he reached inside his poncho and pulled out his wallet.

He was going to enjoy his night off before duty called. Even if he wouldn't be able to remember it in the morning.

01:37 AM

The storm had eased for the moment, becoming a steady shower that continued to pelt the colony. It was now late into the night cycle of Amaethon IV's twenty-nine hour rotation and, aside from the patrolling militiamen, not one colonist was out on the streets. They were all either fast asleep in their beds or continuing the celebrations out of the rain.

However, in the shadows there was something amiss.

A cloaked figure swiftly rushed between buildings, keeping out of the street lamps' glow. It would linger in the shadows for a few moments before it would dart out again to the next patch of darkness. Evidently, this figure was trying too hard not be noticed.

The figure, it progress agonisingly slow by any decent infiltrator, hugged the shadows between a stack of trash cans as a pair of militiamen came walking through the street, chatting to each other about the weather and the annoyance of having pulled sentry duty. They walked past the spot the figure was hiding, pausing momentarily to adjust their gear and shake the rain from their headgear before resuming their patrol. The light from the street lamps glinted off the holstered weaponry on their backs. The figure waited until they passed the bend before it continued on it's way.

Despite the militia's standing as citizen soldiers, their training was on par with the Colonial Army and was often supplemented with hard as nails veterans in retirement.

After several minutes of ducking and running through the rain and darkness, evading militia patrols, it reached it's destination. A rarely visited area of the Caer, used only for scrap storage and a place to dump anything rusted to oblivion by the rains. In fact, it was called Rust Square for all the wrecked and rusting chassis of vehicles from the first days of colonisation.

The figure rushed forward to the largest building, a warehouse that was slightly dilapidated and stopped by the large metal door that had orange blemishes rust of where grey paint used to be. A single cracked lamp above provided light for whoever would need to use it. The figure reached a gloved hand out and gave a series of raps on the pitted metal.

A moment passed before a slide in the door opened up with a rusted scrape and a pair of hard dark eyes peered from the gloom on the other side. The figure visibly shifted on it's feet as the obsidian eyes fixated on it.

"Password?" a voice questioned.

The figure looked behind it quickly, making sure it wasn't followed before it leaned closer to the door.

" _Baradwys_ " it said.

The slide slid shut sharply before the scraping of a rusty bolt was pulled. The door slid open and the cloaked figure hurriedly hopped through before the door swiftly closed with a soft clang. Getting him inside was a large man, dressed in a large monastic robe that covered his normal working smocks. His black eyes, deeply unnerving and iris-less, seemed to absorb the light of the bulb glowing overhead.

"The Patriarch is waiting for you. Head down the stairs." the large robed man directed with a thick finger.

The figure hurriedly walked into the main storage yard that was littered with disused vehicles covered in tarpaulins in an attempt to keep most of the rain out. The roof of the warehouse was dilapidated and gaping holes had been eaten away to allow the rain access to the interior as miniature waterfalls that crashed onto the stowed machinery.

Walking up to a large shipping container, the figured undid the lock and heaved the large door open. Inside was the rusted interior as droplets seeped through the gaps that had been rusted through. But most out of place was the appearance of a large trapdoor built into the bottom of the container that had been covered by a stack of barrel drums. The figure hurriedly set the drums aside and opened the trapdoor with a long rusted screech.

On the other side were a set of steps, cut into the earth and lined with rough stone slabs. The walls on the other hand had corrugated sheet metal holding back the sodden earth. Candles were lining the walls as the tunnel led down into the earth. Much like a dug out bunker in the first world war.

In fact, with the ungodly amount of rain that Amaethon IV had to offer, they might as well be in the Somme. The only thing missing was a war where millions died each day.

The figure quickly stepped into the tunnel before pulling the door shut with a wet clang. Moving quickly but trying not to slip down the stony steps, the figure moved down the tunnel. After a minute of near falls, it reached it's final destination over thirty feet below the surface.

The figure entered a large underground chamber, roughly the size of a standard communal hab unit. At the far end of the chamber was a large stone altar that a full grown man could lay upon, with religious carvings and scriptures in Latin lining the edges. The carvings depicted lithe humanoids, devoid of eyes and long limbs, beings depicted in an angelic manner to the masses of humans at their feet.

This was a makeshift chapel, but it did not seemed that any human religion was practised here. There was a procession of three dozen colonists on their knees and bowing down with their foreheads to the floor in prayer, their hands stretch out in front of them. Another colonist, in his late seventies and his head bereft of all hair, clad in ornate robes was behind the alter with his back to the masses, sticks of incense burning aromatically upon it. In front of him was a large black curtain, lined with silver filigree of curves and eldritch shapes.

This man in pious regalia was obviously a priest.

"Ah, glad you could join us, brother." he greeted jovially, his arms out wide in greeting. "We were just about to conduct our evening prayers."

The figure pulled back his hood, revealing himself to be a scrawny lad of nineteen with wiry red hair and face full of freckles. He knelt down in front of the alter in a gesture of subordination.

"You bring us news?" the priest asked, not turning around to meet the new arrival.

The teen nodded rapidly as he pulled out from his cloak a handful of documents. Documents that no civilian should have in their possession.

"The colonial garrison has been sent away on a training mission. Only a token force remains." he reported, shuffling up to the alter and placing the papers on the stone surface. "Militia are taking up the bulk of the defences."

The priest turned around and the teen caught the man's most distinctive feature. He was wearing a mask that covered his eyes, nose and forehead. A mask that was a smooth dome crafted of a black ceramic substance with a sheen like that of obsidian. An eyeless visage.

"Perfect. A rabble of conscripts shouldn't be too difficult to handle." the priest praised, picking up a document and looking at it. "We have our faithful in their ranks."

"But a platoon of army troopers still guard the Caer." the teen added.

The priest held up a hand with assurance but also a dash of dismissal for the teen's fears.

"Do not despair, young one." he reassured with a fatherly tone. "We will avail over these heathens, regardless of their strength."

He then leaned over the alter and the teen got a closer view at the mask. While the light of the chamber made it hard to see clearly, he was sure he could make out the priest's eyes behind the mask. Two faint orbs.

All fatherly pretences were gone in a matter of seconds as a more pressing question came to mind.

"Do we have access to the armoury?" the priest asked, his voice serious and tone firm.

The teen gulped as he could feel his stomach lurch.

"No. But, I know where the key will be. And who'll have it on rotation." the teen hurriedly explained. "Getting it will be another concern."

The priest smiled cryptically at the teen. Was he pleased or was he disappointed?

"Not if we play their strength into a weakness." he reminded. "Its how our messiahs operate. Remember that."

The priest discarded the papers he was holding and picked up the next document and his smile vanished when he began to read.

"Hmm, now this is of notable concern." he said with a hint of disdain.

The teen fidgeted nervously. Did he fail at something or did he forget one vital document? Or did he get the wrong document?

"Patriarch?" he gulped.

The priest lowered the document onto the alter, his mouth formed into a grimace from finding something unpleasant. On the document's heading was a large symbol. A circle with a pyramid inside. A column with horizontal lines in it's upper half and the Earth on it's plinth. Underneath was the name of the organisation for which the symbol represented.

"OSIRIS." the priest spat with undiluted hatred. "They have caught up with us."

Murmurs began to emanate from the huddled masses. Talk of paradise being denied by the heathens was become prevalent.

The priest held up a hand and everyone calmed as they waited for him to speak.

"Brothers and sisters." he began. "This is of great concern I understand, but we must not be swayed by these butchers of our faith. They are but mere mortals while our messiah is everlasting." He then placed a hand on the alter. "But we will deal with them when the time comes. For now, our design is set. We strike tomorrow." He placed the document down. "Now, let us gaze upon our saviour." the priest decreed turning back to the curtain.. "Let us gaze upon his divine glory. Bless us for our holy task to be done."

The priest pulled back the curtains and a statue of their idol was revealed to all, many of whom exclaimed with reverence and devotion. The standing statue was lithe, lined with flowing patterns with it's long arms ending with taloned claws, stretched out to sides like Christ on the crucifix himself. Its head was smooth and domed, ending with a distinctive grin of human-like teeth with another set of teeth within it's maw. On it's back were four dorsal tubes like wings of an angel and a serpentine segmented tail, tipped with a curved barb snaked down behind its legs. At it's taloned feet was an oval four petalled egg from which lights built into the statue cast it in an almost otherworldly glow

To this cult, it was God. But to the rest of humanity and indeed the galaxy, it was the devil itself. The scourge of many worlds and the deaths of many races.

Xenomorphs

"Yes. Soon we'll bring Paradise to the Frontier." the priest decreed, placing his hand on the effigy's egg bust. "Soon, all will be one."


	2. Chapter 2

7:30am

The rain was still pelting the Caer, as it had during the night. There was a slight lull in the early hours, of which many of the late night revellers hurriedly ran back home before the flood gates opened once more. More then a few had a premature morning shower before they got to cover.

Up early at home for his deployment for the town meeting, and nursing a mild hangover from one too many drinks, Llewellyn donned his gear. Wearing the standard militia BDU, he zipped up his combat jacket, with the Colonial Militia emblem on the right shoulder and his lance corporal stripe on the left, checked his gloves before reaching up into his closet and pulling out the last item in his militia uniform. His standard issue M4 militia-pattern armoured vest and webbing which he slipped on, zipped and buckled up.

Like all militia gear, it was designed with utilitarianism in mind to facilitate mass production, ease of use and with ample protection to ward off most harm that could be thrown at it. As long as it was not anything more deadly then a xenomorph drone. Comprised mostly of multiple ablative layers of ballistic kevlar, padding and light titanium alloy plating, similar in construction to a brigandine from medieval times, it provided protection from most small arms fire and blades.

The latest armour models, after much development, also included thermal and kinetic ablative gel and ceramic plating between layers to dissipate the heat from plasma projectiles and other energy weaponry. Recent combat tests should that it dealt with yautja plasma weaponry remarkably well, being able to withstand several consecutive hits before failing. Although the kinetic impact left much to be desired with many a test subject being being hit with the force of a low speeding truck. And progress had slowed to a crawl in that respect as the amount of test subjects with blunt trauma injuries increased.

Llewellyn thumped himself on the chest, hearing a solid and reassuring thud as he did so. With that, he walked out of his bedroom and over to his gun locker next to his lounge and punched in the code on the pad. A sharp beep sounded off and the magnetic lock released. Pulling the door open, he found his issued weapons.

He pulled out from it's stand his standard militia-grade M24A3 marksman rifle, bullpup in design and gas operated in 7.62mm calibre and equipped with a 3x tactical scope for mid range shooting. He picked up a twenty round magazine from it's slot and slapped it into the stock receiver with a click before placing the three other magazines into their belt pouches.

Militia weaponry was designed for reliability, cost efficiency and ease of use in mind, utilising robust stamping production methods and conventional cased ammunition instead of the caseless pulse action weapons of the armed forces. However, a small cache of military grade weaponry is available should the situation call for it and only by army authorisation. This arrangement was intended to limit their effectiveness in the case of mutinous insurrection. No one in their right mind would want rebels or terrorists to obtain explosive armour-piercing rounds.

But, only a fool would underestimate a determined militiaman with good aim.

Holstering his rifle on his back by it's strap, Llewellyn pulled out his side arm, an M5A2 semi-automatic pistol, and loaded that before sliding it and two spare magazines into his thigh holster. Those were his issued weapons and now he was grabbing something more personalised. He pulled out a five inch piece of steel with a split down the middle with a catch on the bottom. He flicked the catch off and gave it a flick. The steel folded out with a flourish of his finger and a gleaming blade of tempered carbon steel was produced. He smiled as he flicked his balisong knife shut, locked it and placed it in it's pouch on his hip

His little backup surprise.

Slapping on his boonie hat and tactical goggles, Llewellyn left his ground floor apartment unit. Walking down the corridor, he could see that other militiamen from activated squads were leaving their rooms or walking down the stairways, greeting them as they proceeded to their posts. Each militiaman, with their own personalisation, was geared up in the same way, wearing combat jackets and armoured vests, knee pads and boots and also either M10A3 combat helmets, caps or boonies. Their weaponry was according to their position or preference and were also cartridge based. Most had the MP9A2 submachine guns, some had marksman rifles or an M34K carbine and a few had combat shotguns. The heavier grade weaponry, such as pulse rifles and the like, was kept in the Caer's armoury.

Up in the foyer by the main door to the hab complex, they could see another militiaman loitering about. One who had gained something of an infamous reputation at Caer Styfnig.

Angus McDougall of militia squad Beta. The resident crazy Scot of the colony, complete with a tartan beret with a comical pompom and a big red beard that stuck out in all directions like the spines of an urchin, among his more normal kinsman. He was infamous for wearing a kilt, even in horrific weather such as the continuous rain on this planet that was sure to make anyone recede. Something that was certain to have happened during the winter snowstorms that replaced the rain up north. In fact, he had even modified his kilt by stitching kevlar plates into it for added protection to the... vital regions. Ever since the training accident three years ago in which he almost took a bullet to his unmentionables if the aim was just an inch higher.

The optimist would say that was a warning shot. The pessimist would say it was an attempt at purifying the gene pool.

A militiaman walked up to the scot as Angus was adjusting his shotgun's iron sights, gave him a look over and grimaced at the sight of traditional scottish attire.

"Why do you insist on wearing a kilt in this weather?" he asked, pointing outside to the rain.

"Psychological warfare." Angus insisted, not taking his eyes from his weapon. "Moon them before the fight so to throw off their aim."

The militiaman inwardly shuddered at the thought of Angus pulling up his kilt and showing off his ass or his 'gear'. Though for the latter, one would wonder if they would be disgusted or humoured from the 'size' of it.

"And does that work?" the militiaman asked.

"Worked in training." Angus reminded before the smile left his face. "Luckily, they missed."

"Pfft! That guy's sights were out of line." another militiaman scoffed loudly as he passed.

Llewellyn approached them, reaching into his vest and pulling out one of his cigars from a webbing pocket.

"Ready, Angus?" he asked, sticking it in his mouth "Ready to show off your rusty balls of steel?"

Angus glared at him with a raised brow.

"What do you mean rusty?" he questioned with dignity. "I polish them everyday!"

"Too much info!" another militiaman cringed, covering his ears as he passed.

"Then how come you're not blind?" another laughed as he passed them.

Llewellyn suppressed a chuckle as he bit the top of the cigar off and spat out the end. Putting it into his mouth, he picked out his lighter from a webbing pouch, flicked it open and lit it his cigar before walking out into the rain.

Outside the hab complex with other militia squads present, Llewellyn's squad assembled as their sergeant, a middle-aged man with closely cropped greying auburn hair covered by a Colonial Marine Corps cap and intricate tattoos on his exposed forearms, shouted out orders that they were going to be patrolling the north sector, a standard circuit before they man the walls. Militiamen grumbled at that, considering that being up on the wall meant they were going to be copping rain in the face faster then they could spit it out. But, orders were orders and for the time being they were soldiers with a societal obligation to uphold.

And so, foot slogging in the rain and mud, they headed north while the other squads headed to their own muddy holes.

9:36am

The sun was just starting to rise over Amaethon IV. The rays of light just barely penetrating the slate grey clouds that was continuing to pummel the colony with rain. The centre of activity in the Caer was situated in the town hall, a massive structure of stone that very much resembled a small castle. The town hall was erected on the anniversary of the first landing on Amaethon IV and in celebration that the Caer was not washed away like the other founding colonies.

The town hall was abuzz with talking as the majority of the colony gathered for the meeting in the main atrium. Those not present were colonists whose duties involved night work or simply had other important things to do. The colony leadership with sitting at the large table on the raised plinth. Comprised of the colonial administrator, the chief marshal and several prominent colonists such as business owners or large farm holders, including the compulsory Weyland-Yutani representative. Also on the council was the commanding officer of the army platoon that was left to guard the colony. A young lieutenant whose unblemished features and clean lines hinted he had yet to see his first battle. The actual commanding officer of the garrison, a Colonel Franz had declined the invitation, citing more pressing concerns and had the lieutenant proxy for him at the meeting.

A ten man squad of army troopers was also present, standing at the walls with weapons at ease. The second ten man squad were posted outside the hall while the militia were taking up patrols. In the rain. Several colonial marshals were situated among the crowd, distinguished by their armoured jackets with their badges on the right chest piece and caps emblazoned with the Colonial Marshals star.

Colonial Army troopers were equipped in much the same way as the Colonial Marines but there were differences. Firstly, the army was used in a garrison role and for conducting land based operations compared to the rapid response role of the marines. As such their armour was notably more bulkier, with inclusion of more armour plating on limbs, then marine armour which was designed to facilitate mobility with protection. Weaponry on the other hand was more or less the same, aside from the inclusion of heavier weaponry and cosmetic differences, to ease the strain of supply and simplify production.

The colonial administrator, a rather regal looking man in his late sixties and wearing the traditional raiment of a town mayor, stood up from his seat as he began the town meeting with a few taps from his gavel. The name plate on his spot revealed his surname: Driscoll. The chatting and gossip died down intermittently as the administrator began the meeting.

"People of Caer Styfnig." he greeted. "Another harvest has come to pass and it is my, and indeed all of your pleasures to know that this is the finest year that we have had since coming to this world."

More talk of the unceasing rain was mentioned, some colonists adding that with as much rain as they had over the spring, it was fortunate that they did not have another famine on their hands. And then there was the crashed freighter in the southern reaches. More commotion was heard as some of the farmers from the south pointed out that the crash had caused significant problems to their schedules. They had enough problems with the weather without crashing ships to worry about.

The mayor held up a hand to calm the crowd that only partially quelled the masses. The chief marshal at the table opted for a more direct approach, pulling out his revolver and banged the grip on the table loudly several times like a judge's gavel. That worked in bringing silence.

"Thank you, Marshal." the mayor thanked before resuming his speech. "I understand your concerns about the freighter crash in the south. We'll get to that issue later, but that is all taken care of so there is nothing to worry about."

A few derisive jeers came from the assembly, mostly from those who hailed down south, saying that is was nothing to anyone further up north. It's not every day that flaming wreckage from an interstellar craft came raining down on their heads. Also there was the matter of the army garrison departing for their combat manoeuvres at the Wolds. Some said that there was the chance they could come under attack while others stated that no such attack was ever likely.

Again the 'Ball of Mud' argument reared its head.

"Now I know that there is a great amount of apprehension with the garrison off on their training manoeuvres." he continued "But I assure you, as long as we stand strong like our ancient ancestors back on Earth, this Caer will never fall."

9:50am

In the Colonial Army's supply depot in the west, part of the complex that housed the garrison, the quartermaster was busy checking his stores' manifest on his armoury's terminal. He was checking in on the surplus equipment that the departing army forces had not taken on their training mission. And he saw on the multiple windows on his terminal that most of the heavy ordinance had been taken for live firing exercises.

What was left in the stores was enough munitions and equipment for the platoon that was left in the Caer and the militia's emergency arms cache, used only for times when more firepower was needed. It contained the usual mix of conventional pulse weaponry and heavy weaponry such as RPGs and the immortal classic M6HB heavy machine guns. Something that even the yautja had learned to be wary about.

If the need ever rises, and coupled with the determination of defending their families and homes from aggressors, the Colonial Militia can be a force to be reckoned with.

The quartermaster also checked in on a message that he had received from the colonel in the main command centre. It was an update on the crashed freighter, part of an ongoing investigation to determine it's contents and cause of the crash. It told that upon further investigation, taking in multiple factors and physical evidence, that the crash was not due to decaying orbit or failed sub-light engines as first assumed. It was implied that it was a deliberate crash landing. And more complexing, some of the cargo on it's manifest that it was carrying went missing before authorities in the southern reaches could respond.

And the investigators were still determining who the thieves were and how they knew where it would land. Thing got more foreboding when operatives from OSIRIS arrived yesterday, completely unannounced and asking questions about the crash. And their mission, much like all OSIRIS business, was on a need-to-know basis. And Colonel Franz had been notified about it.

All that was mentioned to the masses was that it was of 'treasonable intent'.

After logging down several more logistic entries, the quartermaster left his terminal to resume cleaning a pulse rifle that he had disassembled for maintenance. Unfortunately, there was a breach in the armoury's containment wall two days ago, due to improper maintenance and some of the weaponry was doused in the torrential rain. Luckily, owing to their durable design, only a few pulse rifles in their racks were affected by rust and it did not take long to clean them.

Pulse rifles used by the Colonial Army were the same in construction as pulse rifles used by the Colonial Marine Corps, aside from the inclusion of a full solid stock instead of a retractable stock. But, the stock was perfect for striking an opponent and had internal compartments for storing spare munitions and such. And also as a sturdy base for using the pulse rifle as an improvised mortar with it's grenade launcher.

As the quartermaster went about cleaning the barrel, pushing down a cleaning rod into the fore end when he heard the door open and footsteps entering followed by a brisk series of knocks on the window.

"Just a second." he called out, pulling out the rod and placing it and the barrel back down on the cloth.

Walking up to his window, he saw that a couple of colonists were waiting, dripping rain from their ponchos and one of them was holding an equally drenched marksman rifle in his hands.

"Yes?" he asked before a thought occurred. "I thought the militia were being deployed?"

"My squad hasn't been activated." the colonist said. "But I was wondering if you could have a look at my gun?"

The quartermaster grumbled, muttering something about poorly trained civilians, as he produced his key card from a shirt pocket and ran it through the scanner receptacle on the counter. The window panel unlocked and slid up far enough for the rifle to be slid through. The quartermaster giving the colonist an incredulous look as he took the rifle and gave it a brief once-over.

"I see. Well, judging by the drenched weapon, I surmise you have a question about it?" he asked, shaking excess moisture from the rifle. "And it better not be about rust. I've already had ten lifetimes of rust related questions asked in the last year."

"Well... the breech keeps jamming." the colonist explained, pointing at the receiver. "It's not cycling properly. I think it might be the gas system or something."

The quartermaster sighed in resignation. As if he did not have more important things to do.

'Right, first things first. External indicators." he said before grabbing a cloth and wiping the weapon dry. "And next time, bring it under more adequate cover. Rust IS a serious issue on this planet, in case my speech eluded your head." he sternly reminded, tossing the now damp cloth to the side.

Turning on the lamp on the counter, the quartermaster examined the weapon's shrouding for sign of mishandling. Such as if it was dropped or had been used as an impromptu club. But, aside from the usual wear and tear of use to it's painted panels, there was nothing to indicate any significant damage or malfunction.

So, with external examinations over, the next step was to remove it's exterior shrouding for internal damage.

Unlatching and taking off the upper shrouding, he saw there was no damage to the gas port and it was calibrated correctly for the standard issue rounds it was designed for. He tweaked the tap several times to make sure that the regulator was working and it was.

"Well, the gas system is perfectly fine." he concluded. "Next culprit, the receiver."

He then held the rifle nose down, pointing at the ground before gripping the ejection port's tab and giving it a tug. Despite being able to cock the rusty pulse rifles earlier in the day, this rifle was just plain refusing to budge. He was surprised that it had gotten this stiff.

"Oh, it is a bit stiff." he said in surprise as he gave another tug. "Have you been lubricating it?" he asked

The colonist held up his poncho, allowing the quartermaster to see the rain that had been reduced to a steady dripping from it's plastic surface.

"Hard not to in this weather." the colonist remarked dryly.

The quartermaster reached into a pouch on his belt and pulled out a small bottle of lubricant spray. Good old WD-40. He sprayed into the breech and ejector before trying again. This time, he planted the butt of the weapon onto the ground, wisely aiming the barrel away from his head, and was using his lower body strength for added power.

"I think you may have a bit of corrosion in there." he postulated, putting his foot on the tab and pushing down. "Maybe a defective ejector or jammed cartridge."

He then felt the slide give a bit with a click of internal mechanisms. And there was a rattle of some obstruction from within, hinting that it was indeed a jammed cartridge.

"Oh wait a moment, it's giving." he said, keeping his eye on the weapon.

What he didn't notice as he was fixated on the rifle was that the colonists had ducked behind the counter.

Like they were taking cover.

The quartermaster gave the slide one final tug, putting more force into it and with a loud grinding click, he finally got the breech opened. And a split second later there was a loud bang as the entire receiver and the magazine exploded with a flash and flying shards of metal.

The quartermaster tumbled to the ground with a surprised and pained yell, his legs riddled by the sudden shrapnel. The colonists stood back up to see the quartermaster on the floor, holding his calves which were perforated and bleeding with the occasional ragged shard of metal jutting out of his flesh. The rifle on the other hand was completely blown out, it's shrouding had peeled off like a banana's skin leaving only the twisted and ruptured receiver and a cracked barrel.

"Magazine blow out." he cursed, trying to stem the bleeding.

That was when he noticed the flaring light of a marker flare still jammed in the receiver. And, instead of the smell of smokeless powder, there was the acrid stench of explosives. The same kind that was used for precision demolitions.

Explosives had been crammed into the magazine and a marker flare was used as a contact fuse as an improvised explosive device. Enough to seriously incapacitate anyone in close proximity.

One of the colonists reached for the key card that was still on the counter and used it to unlock the door.

"What are you doing?!" the quartermaster demanded, trying to get to his feet.

The door opened and the two colonists stepped into the armoury as the quartermaster slipped on his own blood. And all intentions of concern were gone from their faces. Replaced with a neutral gaze of ominous intent as they approached him.

The seeds of suspicion had sprouted.

"Oh, I'm afraid this wound is terminal." one of them said.

"What wound?!" the quartermaster demanded, reaching for his radio.

"This wound." the other clarified, reaching behind his back.

And before the quartermaster could react, the colonist drew out a curved knife from behind his back and drove it right into his neck. The quartermaster grabbed the knife out of reflex, gargling loudly as his blood began to pour out from his neck and bubbling out of his mouth as his attacker held the knife firmly in place before twisting it. It did not take him long to choke on his own blood as his eyes rolled back into his head and his hands dropped from his neck.

The colonist withdrew the knife with a sickening slide of flesh and callously kicked the quartermaster's still warm corpse over into the pool of his blood.

Walking over to the armoury entry, he unlocked the door with the murdered officer's keycard and pulled it open. Inside was the weapons cache. Lined up in racks were enough pulse weaponry to arm the entire militia. Over three hundred firearms and the ammunition for them.

The colonist then produced a radio from his poncho and brought it up to his mouth as his accomplice went about ransacking the armoury of it's contents, grabbing pulse rifles from their racks and grabbing magazines. And at this point, more colonists were walking into the armoury from outside, some of whom had blood smeared on their ponchos. Signs of a bloody struggle in which the blood belonged to the loser.

"The armoury is secured. Ready to commence occupation in ten." he relayed.


	3. Chapter 3

9:59am

Back at the town hall, oblivious to the emerging sprout from the seeds of insurrection, the meeting had gone from the customary harvest rhetoric and was now concerning the crashed freighter in the south. Dozens of questions permeated the air, varying from its flight path, it's point of origin and it's intended destination and, more so, a concerned point about the nature of it's cargo.

According to the crash report, some of the destroyed cargo crates had high level security markings. The sort normally used for hazardous materials.

It took several moments of banging the gavel to bring order to the atrium.

"In regard to your concerns about the freighter crash, we have a visitor with us today." Mayor Driscoll said, gesturing to a member of the panel. "Our guest, from the Southern Reaches who helped lead the recovery effort. May I introduce to you all, a mister Desmond Benedict. One of the prominent landholders of the southern reaches."

The man in question was sitting next to the mayor. An older man dressed in a smart though functional business suit, who was wearing a pair of sunglasses and had a large thick cane of Amaethonian oak in hand. Evidently, he was visually impaired as he tentatively stood up, feeling the table for support and almost nudging his nameplate off the table. The mayor helped him to his feet.

"Thank you." Benedict thanked, patting the mayor on the arm. "My eyes are not as they were. Not since the Great Storm. Nearly blinded by near miss from a lightning bolt and since then my sight had been getting worse every year. Ears are still strong thankfully."

"Have you tried augmentation?" the mayor asked.

"Oh heavens, no!" Benedict objected, waving his free hand in refusal. "I dislike the thought of becoming a synth. I prefer not to have wires in my brain."

'Synth' was a slang term for the synthetic human androids that coincide with humans, along with the more baser terms such as 'Tin Men' or the more technophobic slur 'Skin Jobs'. Some androids with more advanced personality programming however prefer the more formal term 'Artificial Person.' while others simply care not for what they're called. The Laws of Robotics prevent them from causing harm at the mention of insults, except for rare instances when their programming 'breaks'.

"Mr Benedict, perhaps you can enlighten us about the recovery efforts of that freighter." Mayor Driscoll proposed. "I understand you had a hand in the initial recovery?"

"Yes, certainly I can." Benedict confirmed. "The bloody freighter did crash on my lands after all."

That joke provoked a few chuckles from the crowd, predominately from those who came from the south. Benedict tapped his cane on the table to get everyone's attention and the laughing died down as he cleared his throat.

"What I know is pretty much what you all know. But, I have first hand experience and I am eager to share it with all of you." he began. "It was certainly the most exciting thing to happen to this world since the Great Storm."

He then bowed his head in a mournful manner.

"Unfortunately, the crew had died in the crash, or if they initially survived they died shortly before we could get to them." he mournfully recalled. "But I assure they're in a better place now." He raised his head. "But, their deaths were not in vain, for their cargo was undamaged. For the most part." he praised.

The mention of the freighter's payload brought up the nagging question as to the identity of it's cargo. A question that had been brought up for the eighth time now since the meeting began.

"What was the cargo?" a colonist asked, losing patience.

"That's what we want to know." another added. "We don't want radioactive shit raining over our heads."

More colonists began to loudly add their concerns, causing the Chief Marshal to bang his revolver on the table again to maintain order. This time with a more resounding finish, like the law enforcer was losing his patience.

"The next uproar will get you all a night in the stocks!" the Chief Marshal warned loudly.

"Thank you again, Marshal." Driscoll thanked.

Benedict again tapped his cane onto the table loudly to get everyone's attention.

"I understand that you all have concerns about the cargo the freighter was carrying." he said, holding his stick out in a gesture of assurance. "But I can assure you all, that is nothing to be concerned about." He paused for effect before continuing. "The cargo is in no way detrimental to anyone." Benedict said, his voice gradually raising into praise and wonder. "Rather, it is for the benefit of all."

"Oh god, it's drugs isn't it?" a colonist joked. "Those idiots up north are gonna bash the gates down to get them."

A few snickers were heard, again at the expense of those who resided up north. Benedict however did not laugh at the joke. Rather, he seemed slightly offended at the comparison. So much so that he banged his cane on the table abruptly.

"No, something far better." he flatly revealed. "Something that had been denied to Earth by the unenlightened."

That caused murmurs to erupt once more from the assembled colonists at the mention of this cryptic description.

Denied to Earth? Unenlightened?

"And do you know what was denied to earth?!" Benedict demanded, his voice echoing around the hall. "Do you know?!"

A dead silence was the only answer he got.

Benedict as that point pulled off his sunglasses and, much to the shock of everyone on the panel, his eyes were not human. In the place of eyes were two jet black orbs and eyelids which had been surgically removed.

The mark of a high ranking Xenomorph Extremist.

" _Baradwys_!" Benedict yelled.

 _Baradwys_ , translated from Welsh meant _Paradise_.

On that signal, the carnage began. Dozens of colonists, the majority from the south, sprang to their feet from their seats, brandishing small curved daggers from under their ponchos. Karambits with barbed blades forged like xenomorph tails. Before the first colonist could even shout in surprise or terror, the mutineers set upon the army troopers and marshals. With quick thinking and a sharp trigger finger, the troopers aimed and fired at their attackers. Those marshals who were not immediately overtaken drew their revolvers and fired, taking down several attackers.

Standard pulse rounds were designed as standard to penetrate armour before detonating a split second on impact and causing massive internal damage. Against unarmoured targets, the caseless rounds had a tendency to pass right through the target before detonating. And that was what was happening as pulse rounds punched through the unarmoured attackers and detonating after exiting.

And this is what the cultists were playing to their biggest advantage. Superior numbers on their side and ineffective weaponry on the other.

The troopers and marshals were set upon by gangs of colonists-turned- fanatics apiece, their superior training and weaponry proving useless against the more numerous foes. Despite cutting down several cultists down, either by shooting or by fisticuffs with the butt of their weapons, they were swamped, overpowered and stabbed to death.

More cultists came from behind the plinth and overpowered the administrator and the other leaders of the colony from their seats. The army lieutenant, on the other hand had his knife drawn and had stabbed a rushing cultist through the temple before kicking his twitching body down from the podium. The officer was then pounced on behind but he was proving to be more then they could handle. It had taken the cultists three stabbings and two broken necks before the lieutenant was overpowered with a stab to his lower spine.

The chief marshal slammed the hammer of his revolver with the speed of a veteran gunslinger of the old west, bringing down six cultists before he was tackled off the plinth by another. His spent revolver flew from his hand as he drew out a retracted baton before he and his attacker hit the floor. Pressing the button, the baton fully extended out to two feet in length and lined with thick rectangular studs that buzzed with electrical power. He jabbed it into the face of the cultist in top of him, a bright flash erupting as the cultist fell backwards holding his slightly smoking face. Seeing a dozen more cultists rushing towards him after finishing off his marshals, the chief marshal set his stun rod to full power. Most of the cultists were writhing on the floor, their bodies wracked by near lethal jolts of electricity by the time the chief marshal was subdued with a bone jarring blow to the head.

Out in the rain, hearing the commotion of a near massacre within the hall, the trooper squad outside cocked their pulse rifles and were about to storm the doors when they came under fire from across the street. The trooper nearest to the doors was gunned down from behind, his body hitting the locked door and sliding down, painting it crimson. The rest of the squad, their training and reflexes kicking in, rushed to cover behind the closet walls and vehicles in diving distance. Fortunately for them, the incoming fire was not as accurate as they feared. Their comrade was killed only by a lucky barrage.

"Location?!" the sergeant called.

The squad marksman peered through his M5RA marksman rifle's scope from behind the stone wall as he spotted the muzzle flashes from the cultist's weaponry from the other side of the street. He ducked down quickly as sparks and dust flew from the stones as bullets impacted the wall.

"Other side of the street. Count a dozen flashes, maybe more." the marksman reported, jabbing a thumb in the direction of fire. "In that tower hab, third and fourth floors. Get a Bettie on them."

The sergeant nodded before he signalled two troopers to clear the building. With maximum force. The two troopers nodded as they loaded their grenades from their bandoleers into their pulse rifles. Blue capped shells, nicknamed Bouncing Betties, which were designed to bounce into the air before detonating in a hailstorm of shrapnel. Perfect for rebounding around corners or air bursting against foes in cover.

Now all they had to do was to get in range.

"Covering fire!" the sergeant yelled.

The squad directed their fire at the tower hab's third and fourth floor. They just had to keep the enemies' heads down so that the two troopers could get close to take them out. And it was working as the number of muzzle flashes diminished as the attackers ducked behind cover.

The two troopers sprinted across the open ground, the odd bullet impacting the mud around them before sliding into cover behind a stone wall next to a parked truck. They cocked their pulse rifles' grenade launchers and fired the grenades into the open windows. Loud rattling was heard from the bouncing grenades before the sharp crack of explosions and the sound of ricocheting shrapnel was heard, followed by lacerated bodies falling from the balconies. Several insurgent cultists were seen staggering onto the balconies, peppered with razor shards and bleeding profusely like water through a sieve from their wounds.

"Covering fire!" the sergeant yelled and his squad answered.

The squad fired their weapons at the hab, concentrating their fire at the cultists who were staggering around on the balconies, nailing them with disciplined volleys and causing more to tumble onto the street below. The two troopers by the truck were getting ready to run back to the squad when they heard a loud yell that echoed around them.

Looking back, they saw that more cultists were rushing into the square. The two troopers at the wall ducked under cover as a fresh fusillade was directed at them. And those at the town hall's walls were coming under fire from another group of cultists. The squad was now heavily outnumbered and getting flanked.

They needed backup from the Militia right now.

"Army troopers under sustained fire!" the sergeant shouted over his comms. "Militia, send ba..."

An ear shattering explosion erupted around the two troopers near the hab, the car next to them being turned into a flaming flower of twisted metal. Both troopers were cut down as razor sharp shrapnel scythed into them, peppering their armour and slicing through exposed flesh. They had barely time to gather their senses or even writhe in pain before a frag grenade was tossed in their direction, set to impact. It landed several feet in front of them and detonated, knocking them back and killing both troopers in a cloud of shrapnel.

A cultist came rushing out from another hab, a smoking metal tube on one shoulder and a cluster of explosive rockets strapped to his chest as he reloaded the RPG.

"RPG!" a trooper shouted, firing his pulse rifle as more cultists came rushing out from buildings on all sides.

And they could hear the unmistakable sound of pulse rifles coming from their ranks. And the sharp cracks of detonating rounds impacting cover.

"Fuck, they got into the armoury!" another trooper cursed. "They're packing pulse weaponry!"

And if they needed more confirmation, one cultist, strapped with improvised armour plating, was wielding a M41AE4 light support weapon which was a larger variant of the pulse rifle designed for squad support as a step below the smartgun. Equipped with a large L drum magazine containing three hundred pulse rounds and longer removable barrels, the LSW was capable of sustained fire against targets, making it an excellent suppressive weapon and this was precisely what the cultist wanted.

Pin them down in order to gut the troopers with their daggers.

"Shit!" the sergeant cursed, ejecting his rifle's spent magazine and slamming in a fresh one.

The cultist let loose his LSW at the troopers with a continuous drone of rapid firing rounds. The troopers ducked back into cover as pulse rounds impacted the stone, the explosive payloads blasting chunks of gravel from each stone block. The topmost stones were being rapidly pummelled into dust, causing the troopers to hug closer to the sodden mud. It did not take long for the barrel to glow red and the falling rain hissed loudly on contact with the hot metal under it's perforated shrouding.

The squad smartgunner knew what to do as he adjusted his servo harness and flicked his helmet's G-TAC visor over his eyes. He hefted his smartgun onto the stone wall, relaying it's infra-red readings to his visor, locked onto the approaching cultists with highlighted silhouettes and he pressed the thumb trigger. It's targets locked, the smartgun tracked them and fired a short burst into each cultist, riddling them with explosive rounds and sending their shredded bodies tumbling to the sodden mud.

This was one advantage that the smartgun had over the LSW. And that you didn't need to see the enemy to kill them. The cultist LSW gunner realised this too late as a salvo of rounds tore him apart in a shower of blood, punctured metal and splintered bone. The fanatical offensive skidded to a halt in the mud as the few survivors darted for cover or hugged the mud.

But then the smartgunner's visor was flashed out by a sudden influx of thermal energy, almost blinding him. Flicking up his visor and pulling his smartgun down, he switched out the empty ammunition drum.

"New targets coming up!" he warned, slamming in a new drum and pulling the cocking handle with a loud cha-chink.

The sergeant quickly drew his knife from it's shoulder holster, it's polished blade glinting in the light, and he stuck it up over the wall to see what was reflected back. And his eyes widened as he the bright plume of flame that was roaring in their direction.

"Flame!" he warned the squad.

A cultist had grabbed a heavy flamethrower unit, used of for industrial purposes, and was now lumbering towards their position with several other fanatics in close tow, though evidently burdened by the large fuel tank on his back. And this was bad news for any entrenched soldiers as one well placed burst could incinerate them all.

But there was one drawback.

The marksman popped up from cover, fired his rifle at the flamer's fuel tank and the cultist and everyone close to him was engulfed in a massive fireball. And thus the reason why backpack fuel tanks fell out of favour in the military. One well placed shot would take out more then a few combatants. With the smaller more portable tanks that military flamethrowers used, that danger was minimised to only the wielder.

But despite putting up ferocious resistance, more and more extremists were converging on the troopers position, adding their weight to the offensive. And it was only a matter of time before they ran out of ammunition. They had to withdraw back to the army complex. Those inside the town hall would just have to hold out if they hadn't already succumbed to the fighting.

Hunkered as they were in their rapidly crumbling defences, they were a sitting duck under the superior firepower of the extremists. As more weaponry was being aimed at them, the troopers initiated their withdrawal. Popping smoke, they tossed smoke grenades in all directions before pulling their visors down to activate thermal vision.

At this show of retreat, and as predicted, the attacking cultists at that point launched an offensive that was to overwhelm the troopers.

The smartgunner aimed his smartgun into the smoke, his targeting interface highlighting the enemy silhouettes and unleashed nearly a full drum into the cultists that were now rushing their position. Cultists were being mowed down by the pulse rounds that this time were set to detonate on impact. Faced with this sudden realisation, the extremists either surged forwards faster or tried to retreat. It did not matter as they were all shredded before they could reach their destinations.

As this rearguard action took effect the rest of the squad attempted to pull out, popping more smoke as they did. But no sooner did they leave their position, in a change of tactics the majority of cultists decided to simply hose the area with a barrage of shots rather then risk another failed assault. With so many projectiles tearing through the air, someone was bound to get hit.

The support trooper caught a pulse round to his shoulder, the projectile punched into his left pauldron before detonating a split second later. The force caused him to tumble to the ground, sliding through the mud, before rolling to his side with blood trickling from his ragged shoulder. Getting to his knees, he fired his smartgun at a rushing mob of cultists to buy his squad time to flee. A dozen fanatics were gunned down before he was cut down with a frenzy of stabbing blades.

The reminder of the squad had almost escaped the square when they were cut off by enemy armour.

A truck skidded into view, a civilian truck that had been turned into an attack technical, compete with improvised armour plating. On it's bed was a machinegun that had been bolted onto a pivoting stand. The gun aimed at the troopers and fired as they turned to flee down another street. One trooper was caught in the barrage, the rounds punching through him, armour and flesh, like stones through tissue paper. By the time his body hit the ground, he had been reduced to a perforated mess.

Not even the most modern body armour could stand up to the power of rounds. And even the Yautja know this.

The sergeant was almost clear when a loud crack filled the air and the sickening sound of a large bullet hitting flesh and bone was heard. His left leg became severed at mid shin, his armoured greave the only thing holding it together despite the large hole punched through it, as he tumbled into the mud next to a stone wall on the outskirts of the square. Seeing his squad hesitate, he shouted at them to leave him and get back to base as he thumbed a green capped grenade into his grenade launcher's breech.

A High Explosive Armour Piercing shell.

All in all, four troopers were able to escape the trap and they fled deeper into the colony. The sergeant, blood gushing from his pulverised leg and gnashing his teeth through the pain, propped himself against the stone wall and brought his pulse rifle up, cocking the grenade launcher as rounds punched into the stone wall around him. He aimed and fired at the truck, the grenade punched through windscreen and detonated, sending the truck and it's occupants to a fiery demise of twisted metal as the whole vehicle bucked onto it's side.

The sergeant final moments were gunning down the cultists rushing his position before he was gunned down in turn. But in his final moments, he had taken out another five fanatics. But the skirmish was now over and the Xenomorph Cult was the victor.

Inside the town hall, the butchery had ceased and nearly all the army troopers and marshals had been slaughtered like stuck pigs. Those taken prisoner was hauled with the rest of the hostages while the dead were simply being dragged out outside. And the cultists dragging the bodies, trailing dark blood behind them, were surprised by the amount of carnage that the troopers outside had caused. The flames from the wrecked vehicles were still cracking in the rain.

The death toll the cultists suffered in the opening skirmish was almost six to one. But they had the strength of numbers to alleviate that.

Some cultists in the atrium began discarding their civilian clothing, revealing their signature body suits that they had been wearing underneath. These lightly armoured suits worn by devout extremists were sculpted in the image of Xenomorph physiology, complete with padded musculature, a moulded ribcage and four dorsal tube spines that snaked down their backs. Previous experience had shown that solid tubes sticking out the back proved unwieldy and a hindrance. Later suits utilised a more flexible material built around an articulated core that could be tucked away went not needed. The only time they would be used was for conducting night time raids in a manner reminiscent of the xenomorphs. Or in a massed charge, suicide or otherwise. And a few began rubbing off carefully applied make up that hid intricate xenomorph tattoos.

Benedict was pacing up and down the plinth, running his hand over the table as a surrogate alter. A pair of cultists came walking up, bearing his patriarchal robes and ceremonial xenomorph mask. He slipped them on, a grin peeling on his face as he felt more in control, slipping on the robes. His body suit could wait until later. He then slipped on his mask, feeling the cool smoothness of it's ceramic structure on his forehead, covering his upper face and leaving his mouth exposed.

Some of the more devout patriarchs would go so far as to replace their limbs with cybernetic replicas of xenomorph talons and claws and even prehensile tails tipped with wicked barbed blades. And a few have even taken one step further.

"Ah, much better." he thanked, straightening his robes and adjusting his mask.

He addressed the assembled hostages, tapping his cane on the plinth. Inwardly, he smiled at the sight of potential converts before him.

"The Caer is now under my control." he declared, pointing his cane at them like a sword. "Resistance will not be tolerated. As had just been demonstrated, any and all dissidents who oppose us will be eliminated. Defiance against me is defiance against God."

He then laughed in a somewhat embarrassed manner like he overreacted over a trivial concern. For the hostages it was anything but trivial as the Patriarch waved his cane in an apologetic manner.

"But where are my manners?" Benedict then added, hostility fading from his voice. "Indeed, you should be honoured. This is but the lull before the glorious renaissance about to unfurl on this backward planet on the Frontier. The paradise that had been denied back on Earth by our founder Salvaje."

He was in no doubt referring to the Infestation of Earth in 2192 and the man responsible for the nightmare unleashed. A nightmare which caused the deaths of tens of billions and almost cost humanity their homeworld.

And one in the crowd openly stated that.

"You're insane." a voice objected from the crowd. "Hell was the only thing unleashed on Earth."

Benedict, his fatherly aura eroding almost instantly, narrowed in on the source of the dissent. And his mouth scowled when he caught sight of the Caer's pastor, denoted by his clerical collar and by the Trinity Church crucifix around his neck. The Trinity Church is the name given to the unified monotheistic faith of Judeo-Christian religions formed in the aftermath of the Infestation of Earth. The premise being is that killing each other over the same god was a biblical misunderstanding and a problem that had been intentionally put aside. But unfortunately, old wounds still persist and a few still insist that there is only one true faith. Their own of course.

But the one thing that they all agree on ironically is that Xenomorph Extremists are true heretics. And religious sedition was not tolerated in Federation space.

"Ah, an apostate." Benedict said in ill disguised contempt. "How inconvenient."

Benedict clasped the pommel of his cane and twisted it with a loud shifting click. He then pulled it off the body of the cane, revealing a gleaming blade of blackened steel that was shaped like a xenomorph's inner jaws and ending in a cleft tip shaped as teeth.

Frightened murmurs began as the colonists suddenly had a nasty realisation of what was going on. As proved many a time, religious extremists always took the opportunity to eliminate those of different faiths. In some cases, they don't even bother with a forced conversion as it was much easier to simply kill them.

"But first, before paradise can come, there are some who are unworthy of this honour." Benedict said, snapping his fingers. "Followers of a heretical sect that glorifies the false views of the false prophets."

Two cultists walked over and grabbed the pastor by his shoulders before hauling him up onto the plinth. Kicking his knees out from under him, they held the pastor down while Benedict walked up. The inner jaw dagger glinted in the light as some of the hostages began to realise what was going to happen. Pleas were heard, begging the Patriarch not to execute the pastor. But their pleas fell on deaf ears. Or ears that relished hearing the torment of others.

The pastor however was facing his imminent demise with a stiff upper lip.

"You're following a dark path." the pastor warned as the cultists held his arms out in an arm lock. "You'll never succeed. You'll only enter a living hell."

Benedict was unconcerned by the preaching. Rather, he just swiped his cane and smacked the pastor in the face with a loud crack. The pastor's head rocked back violently as a large bruise began to blossom on his cheekbone. He barely had time to recover from that as the cultists grabbed him by the head and held him up, keeping his eyes locked onto the Patriarch. The light glinted off the blackened blade of the Patriarch's dagger, rippling across the contours of it's ridges and barbs.

"Your faith and the other false faiths died out years ago. The old replaced by the new" Benedict coldly said, raising the dagger high and grasping his head with his free hand. "Behold the faith of a true believer!"

Benedict brought the dagger down and it punched right through the pastor's forehead with the tip punching out the back of his skull. The pastor's life was snuffed out instantly with only the twitching of a failing nervous system the only life left as blood began to trickle down the blade and dripped onto the plinth. Colonists reacted in fear and shock as the pastor was murdered right in front of them. Some had turned away at the sound of bone being punched in, only to have cultists forcing their heads back to watch.

This method of execution was to emulate the signature killing technique of the xenomorphs. The infamous head-bite.

Benedict wrenched out the dagger with a sickening crunch and the pastor's lifeless head sagged down, blood streaming from the hole. The Patriarch cleaned his dagger of blood and cerebral matter on the pastor's coat before sheathing it back into his cane. With a snap of his fingers, the two cultists dragged the dead pastor out of the hall. Blood continued to spurt out from the ragged hole and one spurt almost landed on Benedict. The Patriarch aptly stepped to the side to avoid getting blood on him and his robes.

As the head of the cult, it would not do if he got his priestly robes all dirty like a half mad preacher in the middle ages.

"Almost got blood on my robes." Benedict muttered, checking himself for any red blotches.

Satisfied that he did not look like a glorified butcher, Benedict composed himself as he stepped over the blood trail, holding his robes up as to not get the finely ornamented edges a sudden dye change. He tapped his cane on the plinth loudly to get everyone's attention.

"Now that this gruesome business is dealt with, we can concentrate on more important matters." he said, swinging his cane in hands. "The true purpose of my visit."He snapped his fingers loudly, the cracks echoing throughout the hall. "Bring me the vessels of our lord." Benedict ordered loudly, turning his back to the hostage colonists. "It is time to fulfil our Father's dream!" he shouted out in jubilation as he walked off the plinth.

To the hostages, some of whom have began praying in whatever faith they followed, that only meant one thing.

Eggs.

Xenomorph eggs.


	4. Chapter 4

10:09am

At the north wall, Llewellyn struggled for his life as the cultist that jumped him tried to drive a curved dagger into his neck. His squad had almost finished their patrol near the north gate when they heard explosions from within the Caer and shouting and gunfire erupting over their comms. That was when the ambush began with cloaked colonists, a few wearing odd bodysuits, and brandishing curved daggers pounced on them from hab roofs.

One militiaman was unfortunate to take a dagger right through his skull, the blade burying itself to the hilt inside his head. Another was subjected to the same attack but his combat helmet deflected the blade so he was only body slammed into the mud with a sore neck. The rest of the squad was able to evade the attacks and were able to get a few shots off before melee combat came into prominence.

The militiamen were fortunate that they were not fighting actual xenomorphs, like on other Frontier Worlds. If they were, not one of them would have survived the initial attack nor would they be even aware they were under attack.

Unfortunately for the attackers, what was suppose to take out a squad of farmers in one swift stroke soon degenerated into a fierce scrummage of shouting, cursing and grievous bodily harm. Every now and then, a shot would fire out as a firearm discharged either intentionally or accidentally.

In a situation such as this, the basic instinct to survive was simple: Kill or be killed.

Llewellyn was sinking deeper into the mud as the cultist renewed his assault, punching him in the armoured gut to make him lose his grip on the dagger. Llewellyn in the meantime managed to get a hand behind his back, to the pouch on his waist where his balisong was stowed. Weathering the cultist's punches and pushing, he popped the knife out and with a lurch was able to flick it open.

That was when he struck.

Llewellyn grabbed the cultist's hand, pulled it over to his mouth and bit down with all the force that a human jaw could muster. The was the sound of splitting flesh and tendons and the cultist yelled out in pain as he dropped his dagger, the bladed implement hitting the mud with a splat. Taking the initiative, Llewellyn, tasting blood in his mouth, spat the mauled hand out and rammed his head onto the cultist's face as the satisfying sound of nasal cartilage cracking was heard, followed by another yell of pain as the cultist was knocked back. Llewellyn finished him off by driving his balisong right into the cultist's neck, through the trachea and into the jugular and ripping the blade out with a fleshy rip.

The militiaman was now being doused in a deluge of blood as the cultist choked and gagged on his own fluids. Llewellyn got his boot under the cultist's chest and kicked the haemorrhaging fanatic off him before he could drown in blood. Spitting out blood that was not his, Llewellyn heaved himself from the haemoglobin enriched mud, grabbing his rifle and rejoined the fray as his would-be killer choked to death in it.

A cultist nearby was caught in a headlock by the militiaman sergeant who, having served thirty years in the Colonial Marine Corps, was more then a poorly trained insurgent could handle. More so when he had his neck snapped like a twig and a knife to the heart in one fluid motion. Dumping the still warm corpse in the mud, the veteran dashed off to his next target and driving his knife into the small of the cultist's back before wrenching him off his feet.

A yell was heard from another militiaman as a dagger slipped through his armoured vest and dug into his gut by the cultist pinning him to the ground. The cultist wrenched the dagger out, trailing blood with it and was about to bring it down again when his head blew open at the temple as a shot from Llewellyn's rifle blasted his brains out. Llewellyn rushed up and shot another round into the twitching corpse before firing again at another cultist, taking him down with a clean shot to the lung.

The attack was now faltering as the cultists were being picked off one by one. Some, having realised they had now lost their advantage of numbers where even now trying to flee the fight but, knowing that they would give away their position, the militiamen were showing them no respite. Some getting their firearms back shot those fleeing cultists in the back or blew out their kneecaps as they tried to flee before rushing up to finish them off. All those that tried to flee were gunned down before they could even leave the street. And they were then quickly finished off with added venom behind their deaths.

The last cultist was dispatched by Angus, who was crushing his fanatic's skull into the mud with the butt of his shotgun. He kept up the punishing blows until he was sure he could see the cultist's brain peeking out from the cracks.

"And that's the last of them." Angus called out, wiping the blood, mud and possibly pulverised brains from his shotgun's stock.

All the militia gathered around, hauling their wounded comrades as they took in consideration what had just transpired. First they heard explosions and shouting over the comms and the next moment, a group of would-be assassins tried to kill them in an ambush. And now they could hear more gunfire cracking in the air all around the Caer, punctuated by the sounds of fresh explosions coming from various sources.

This was not an isolated attack. This was a full blown insurrection in effect.

"Is everyone all right?" the marine veteran asked.

"Locke's dead. Dagger through the skull." a militiaman cradling his bloodied leg in the mud reported, pointing at Locke's body. "And we got wounded here, myself included."

"Fucker ruined my smoke." Llewellyn added, holding up a mud-caked cigar before flicking it away with displeasure.

Out of the squad of ten, one was dead, another three badly wounded and one who had a severed finger from wrestling a dagger. In fact, all of them had a wound of some kind from where a dagger blade nicked through their clothing or a bruise from an aptly landed punch or kick landed home.

The grisly process of checking for survivors began as the militiamen started to get their bearings on who their attackers were. As they did so, they quickly realised the nature of the enemy. One whose group had a cataclysmic effect on humanity.

"The fuck is this?" Angus questioned, prodding a dead cultist with his boot and seeing a ribbed body suit underneath it's cloak. "Xenomorph Extremists, here?"

Llewellyn picked up the dagger that nearly slit his throat from the mud and looked at it. He saw how the blade was shaped like the barbed tail of a xenomorph and the grip had the same ribbed structure as the creatures and the body suits that some of the cultists were wearing. The pommel was roughly resembling the xenomorph distinctive curved head. All in all, by the quality, this was a knife used by lowly ranked members of the cult. A simple tempered steel blade with a cast hilt.

"Yeah." he confirmed, tossing the knife into the mud and wiping his hand on his vest.

"Bastards!" the militiaman missing the first two digits of his left ring finger cursed, stemming the blood with a handkerchief.

"You alright, Glenn?" a militiaman, distinguished by a medical cross on his vest's back, asked as he tended to the wounded.

Glenn looked up at him as the bleeding started to stem from the pressure he was holding against the severed vessels.

"I just lost a finger, Dane. What do you think?" Glenn spat, picking up from the ground his severed finger. "Nearly lost my ring as well." he added, washing it in the rain before stowing it and the appendage in a pouch.

The medic pulled out a small bandage from a pouch, shielding it from the rain and went about patching up the severed finger's stump. It was thankfully a clean cut so if they kept the finger on ice, there is the chance of reattaching.

Llewellyn knelt down to pull off the hood of one the dead cultists and his eyes widened with recognition as he realised who these fanatics were.

"These are the farmers from the Southern Reaches." Llewellyn realised, walking over and pulling down another hood before nodding. "I recognise some of them from the Red Dragon last night."

"You mean those guys who wanted to see the freighters off?" Dane asked, tightening the bandage with a hiss from Glenn's teeth.

Llewellyn prodded the body he was examining, an elder man with jovial features and nodded. He remembered this one being the lead vocalist of the colonists who were singing lively songs only the night before. That was one of the things about traitors. A good and fair exterior, someone you could be close friends with or even lovers, but could house a blackened soul seeking only your demise.

"This one right here." Angus said, pointing his shotgun at the body of an attractive woman who had her own dagger through her heart. "I did her only last night. I thought there was something off about her."

"Like that ever stopped you." Glenn remarked with dry humour as the medic finished tending to his finger before focusing on the other wounded militiamen. "I remember the time you bedded a human auroch."

"Only due to poor lighting in the Red Dragon!" Angus protested.

"You're better off with an Arcturian." Llewellyn added with a smirk "Doesn't matter what gender you fuck in that case."

Arcturians, being androgynous in appearance with slight variation between genders, are often the butt of many puns involving the bedroom. But the majority of Arcturians are asexual by nature and thus are not swayed by most arguments of gender. Rather, they see gender politics as a waste of time, stating anything more then two genders as trouble, and whose preferences were which was entirely up to the individual. So long as they don't cause an attention seeking uproar about it.

Which is more then can be said for human history.

While the accusations of inappropriate bedmates was going on, the militia sergeant checked several of the bodies and, on nearly every one he found, that they were suited up in militia armour over their body suits. Evidently, these ones decided on a more tangible form of protection instead of their heinous faith. He even found a pistol in it's holster on the cultist he had snapped the neck of.

"And they brought their militia gear with them too." he added, pulling out the pistol and looking at it. "This was not a spontaneous uprising. This was planned." he deduced, slipping the pistol behind his back into his belt.

There was the sudden sounds of a scuffle coming from the nearest alley as a dustbin shifted from an impact. One of the militiamen seemed to have found a straggler from the fight and lurched out of the shadows.

"I got a survivor!" the militiaman, sporting a fresh ragged cut on his right cheek, shouted out from the alley. "One of the bastards was hiding with the trash!"

The sounds of struggling was heard as the militiamen wrestled out from a stack of trash cans the lone cultist that survived the failed ambush, keeping a firm grip on his neck and staying out of reach from lashing hands.

"Bring that fucker out then, Kurt." the sergeant ordered.

Kurt heaved and shoved the cultist into the mud, giving him a few good kicks to his shot leg. It was a teenager with wiry hair and a face full of freckles who oddly enough did not wear a bodysuit. Evidence of a low position in the cult. The militiaman then grabbed him by the scruff of his collar and dragged him back to the squad before pushing him into the mud. The wounded militiamen on the ground could only glare at him while cradling their injuries as the medic tended to them.

"You fucked up big time, laddie." Angus warned, petting his shotgun's barrel.

"Now."the veteran said, crossing his arms and rapping his fingers on a tattooed arm. "You have some serious explaining to do."

The teen looked up at the militiamen with all the integrity of a quivering dog at the mercy of an all too enthusiastic vet.

"We can either do this the easy way or, if you are feeling defiant, the hard way." the sergeant elaborated, drawing his knife from it's sheath on his belt. "And, trust me, I know a few ways to get you talking." he warned, tilting the blade to catch the light of the street lamps.

This was all the coercion needed as the last vestige of defiance crumbled.

"Please." the teen begged. "I didn't want to do it!"

"But you did anyway." the veteran pointed out, pointing his knife accusingly.

"I didn't have a choice!" the teen explained.

"That's what they all say." Angus elaborated, hefting his shotgun on his shoulder. "Everyone has a choice. It's what separates a free man from a slave. Then again, how do we sort out the truth from the lies?"

That was a very good point and also a good conundrum to ponder. Many a member of a rebel movement claim they only aided them under duress but there are those who use the guise of innocence as an easy way to pass the blame on others. And use their new-found freedom as an opportunity to sabotage the enemy from within. And human history had its fair share of the enemy within.

The veteran twiddled his knife in his fingers suggestively, the blade glinting in the light like a flashing beacon of imminent pain as it danced.

"Now, you will tell us what you know." the veteran demanded, flicking the knife's grip into his palm and pointing the tip at the teen.. "Or you will be a subject for experimental brain surgery."

That subtle threat was more then enough to make the subject comply.

"I only know that the cult was to take the Caer over." the teen rapidly said. "I was to provide information. In exchange, they'd let me live when it fell into their hands."

"Clearly, they altered the deal." Llewellyn surmised. "They didn't intend for you to survive in a fight. I'd say that's tying up loose ends."

The militia were thinking the same thing. When it came to insurrectionist groups, the majority were not ones to leave loose ends that could very well turn against them. To succeed, they had to be ruthless and leave nothing to chance, even disposing of their most loyal assets should a seed of suspicion bloom. And Xeno Extremists were considered the most ruthless to have forsaken their own race for the Xenomorphs.

But then, unlike humans, Xenomorphs don't fuck each other over for a percentage.

The teen's radio at that moment buzzed with static as he was being hailed. Some of the cultist corpses too had radios buzzing. The militia aimed their weapons at him in anticipation, the sound of cocking bolts clicking, just waiting for the moment when they would be ratted out. The teen slowly reached for his radio as he picked up the call.

" _Brothers, what is your status?"_ the cultist on the other side relayed. _"Has the militia been culled?"_

Angus kept his shotgun aimed at his head as the teen raised his radio and held it to his mouth.

"Yes, militia forces had been eliminated." he reported, keeping a stoic tone. "Took some casualties but the ambush was a success."

" _Excellent."_ the cultist praised on the line. _"Return to the town hall for further orders. The Patriarch wants to begin conversions as soon as possible."_

The teen gulped as Angus raised his shotgun to eye level. He could see down both barrels which would take his life in the flash of an instant if he failed to comply.

"Understood." he confirmed. "Just give us time to dispose of the bodies."

" _You have thirty minutes."_ the cultist stated. _"After that, we'll be coming to your position to bring you back ourselves."_

The cultist severed the line on his side, the teen dropped the radio at the sound of static and kept his hands up. The sergeant reached down and picked the radio up from the mud.

"Well, that's our cover set up." he said, hooking it up on his webbing's left shoulder strap. "Now, what do we do with him?"

That was a good question. Considering that their squad was below full strength, the issue of holding prisoners was a burden that they could do without. They could hardly afford to be slowed down by the extra luggage what with their wounded to consider. And then there is the issue of the prisoner reporting their position the moment he was out of reach.

"He's a liability." Llewellyn quickly pointed out. "If we cut him loose, he'll give away our position first chance he gets. Wounded are always easy targets."

"Besides, the bastards already have death sentences." Kurt darkly reminded. "Federation Law is very clear on that."

That last sentence sent the teen into a meltdown as all the militia nodded their heads in agreement.

"You said you were going to let me live!" the teen begged.

The militia processed the plea for a moment before a unanimous decision was made.

"What a fucking stupid idea." Angus said, flicking his shotgun to both barrels.

Before so much as a scream could leave the teen's lips, Angus then fired his shotgun right in his face and his head promptly disappeared in a cloud of red mist and bone dust. The teen's headless cadaver flopped into the mud, twitching as the body received it's last orders from a now absent brain. That of a futile struggle.

To the Federation, Xenomorph Extremists and indeed all extremist and terrorist groups are likened to cancer. The only way to deal with them was to eliminate every single member and affiliate. Leave one cell alive, the cancer would regrow and the cycle would continue. This was the reason why so many splinter cults were formed after the infestation when survivors of Salvaje's original cult fled Earth during it's fall, hidden among the refugees fleeing the Xenomorphs. And any cults that were found were eradicated without mercy but for every one destroyed there was several more that was formed in it's place. In the past, it would have been deemed brutal and surmounted to borderline tyranny, but in this day and age it was a simple fact of life.

And history will not repeat itself. With the result of a potentially planet-wide infestation as the consequence, it was better to cut the out the weed before it sprouted.

"Never trust a traitor that betrays the traitors." Angus quoted, cocking his shotgun and both shells pinged out from their breeches.

Murmurs of agreement was heard from the squad as a response. Though the wounded militiamen thought that he deserved worse. But, compared to what Xenomorphs Extremists usually treated their prisoners, at least the teen's death was instantaneous. Quicker then hanging from a rope from the nearest gallows.

Now that all the enemy had been eliminated, there was the issue of what to do next. They had the advantage of a faked death and a half hour long window of freedom, how can they capitalise on that?

"What now?" Llewellyn asked, unloading his rifle's magazine for an ammo count.

"Lock up the wounded somewhere safe and lets get to the town hall." the sergeant ordered. "See if we can link up with other militia squads on the way."

That idea, bold as it was, was not met with enthusiasm. Most of the squad were quick to voice their opinion on the matter. The premise of heading deeper into the Caer, to where there would be more extremists lying in ambush, was not attractive. Another option was offered as an alternative.

"We need to get a distress call out to recall the garrison." Dane said, tending to the most severely wounded militiaman. "They'll be able to hammer these bastards into the ground." he assured as he examined the militiaman's chest.

"Distress flares any good?" Kurt suggested.

"Might work if they're in range but this fucking rain may have other ideas." Llewellyn pointed out. "Besides, I doubt they'll even be in range. And it will be like a candle for moths."

Even now the rain was starting to come in harder. The blood that was infusing the mud was now being filtered out into a maroon layer as the denser mud sank to the bottom. Provoked muttering came from the wounded as the onslaught hailed onto their sore wounds.

"Half of us could try to get to the Army comm station while the other half makes for town hall." Dane suggested, trying to cover his patient with his body.

"Not enough of us. We're outnumbered as is." The veteran sergeant pointed out. "We have a better chance staying together."

"And what if those cultists have already killed everyone there?" Angus added. "We'd be trading one trap for another."

It was true as they only survived the ambush purely by chance. If they had suffered more losses at the beginning, or if their attackers were more proficient killers, they might as well have been written off as KIA.

While their debate was going on in the rain, a door opened near them and those with weapons out aimed at what they thought was another cultist ambush. Fortunately, as well as convenient, it was one of the night duty nurses from the hospital, still in her night clothes who looked like she was roused from her sleep by the sounds of fighting in the mud and had now decided to investigate after the gunfire and shouting stopped. And her eyes went wide and her arms held up as she found a fireteam's worth of guns being aimed at her.

"Don't shoot!" she begged before she noticed all the dead cultist's littering the blood infused mud."My god, what happened!?"

"Xeno fanatics in the colony." the veteran sergeant explained tersely. "We got seriously wounded militiamen here. One dead."

The nurse's training kicked in as she rushed out into the rain, regardless of her current choice of dress, to the badly wounded militiaman who was cradling his gut as Dane shuffled aside. Pulling his hands away, she saw a large incision had been cut into him through his armoured vest before unzipping it for a better look.

"Abdominal stab wounds. Aorta is not ruptured. Possible ruptured stomach though." she said analytically, examining the gaping wound in the belly.

"That's what I thought." Dane conferred.

"We need to hide them." the sergeant urged. "Until we get help, they'll stand no chance if they're seen."

The nurse looked up at them.

"Get them inside." she said, covering the wound back up. "I have a cellar they could hide in."

The militia worked fast as they got their wounded comrades inside and out of the rain and mud. Kurt and Dane stayed outside to dispose of the cultist's corpses in the nearest dumpster while the rest carried their wounded comrades inside. The nurse guided them to the back of the hab to a sealed trapdoor, grabbing thick blankets from a cupboard on the way. Pressing the code on the control pad, the door opened outwards and she went down into the stone lined cellar, quickly laying out the blankets on the floor. As the squad went about getting their wounded comrades comfortable, she rushed back upstairs and retrieved her personal medical kit and other supplies. While she could not fully help the wounded militiamen's injuries, she could at least keep them stable until they could get proper medical care.

The most able of the wounded, having only suffered deep lacerations to one leg, was gathering his comrades' weapons and checking them. Being in less need of help, he was going to be responsible for their security if the cultists should ever find them. And with only one point of entry, a bottleneck was advantageous at the cost of having no other way to flee. The one dead militiaman was wrapped in a blanket and placed against the far wall out of the way.

Glenn in the meantime had grabbed the nearest storage container and filled it up with ice from the nurse's ice dispenser before placing his severed finger inside and burying it in the ice. He then placed it in the cellar for later retrieval and hopefully a successful reattachment.

After enough supplies had been stored below to wait out the uprising, which hopefully should not take more then a few days, the squad exited the cellar to leave the nurse with their squad mates. Llewellyn was the last to vacate the cellar and he looked at the open trapdoor before he had a thought.

"You can lock this door on the inside?" Llewellyn asked.

"Yes." the nurse confirmed coming up the stairs and pointing to the relevant controls mounted into the stone wall. "There's a pad right here."

"Lock the door and don't make a sound until this blows over." the sergeant ordered, before he looked back into the hab's interior. "By the way, is everything of value in the cellar?"

The nurse went quiet from the sergeant's question, wondering what he could possibly mean by that.

"Yes, why?" she asked.

That innocent question was all the confirmation they needed.

"Smash the place up." the sergeant ordered, walking off. "Make it look like it was looted already."

Before the nurse could so much as protest, Angus slammed the hatch shut and locked it before Llewellyn heaved up a chair and smashed it against the hatch, smashing the control panel in a shower of sparks and created a camouflaging debris pile from the fragmented furniture. Angus went one step further and heaved down a nearby book case onto the trapdoor with a loud crash of wood, literature and various items one would keep on shelves. Yells from the nurse was heard, partly those of shock and of outrage that her home was being outright demolished.

"Trust me. If its a shit hole, nobody will want to come in." Angus assured through the door, just a loud crash was heard from the kitchen.

That was evidently the sergeant ransacking the fridge and heaved it to the floor. The veteran even made the effort of tossing a few bottles of random contents against the wall in a mock up drunken display.

Leaving the objecting nurse to tend to their wounded in the safety of the cellar, the three militiamen kept up the supposed looting until the hab looked thoroughly ransacked. Angus had even took the step of setting some of the wrecked furniture on fire to add to the authenticity. Hopefully, this should discourage any cultist patrols from investigating. And the rain should keep the fire from spreading if it got out of control.

Walking back out into the rain, they started to kick up the mud in order to try and hide most of the blood and bits of flesh that mixed with the liquefaction of soil. Kurt and Dane had by now disposed of nearly all the dead cultists, the dumpster they were using having several arms and legs poking from the rim. Kurt was busy trying to compact them so they could throw the last body in, standing on the cadaverous mound and stomping on them. Glenn was standing by with his carbine on his shoulder and looking at his mutilated hand.

They heard the squelching steps of their fellow militiamen as Kurt jumped off the bodies and into the mud with a splat.

"What now?" he asked.

He bent down and grabbed the last body by the shoulders as Dane reached for it's legs. This one being the cultist who had tried to slit Llewellyn's throat and whose throat had a huge ragged tear through the windpipe and jugular. They hefted it up past their waists and were getting ready to swing it up and on top of the pile.

"Get those bodies out of the dumpster." the veteran ordered.

Both militiamen dropped the cultist into the mud with a loud splat of puzzlement followed by vexation. The sort that cropped up whenever spending significant time doing a task and the whole ordeal becoming pointless in a matter of seconds.

"You're kidding me?" Kurt said, pointing a thumb at the overflowing dumpster. "After all the trouble getting them in there, why should we get these bastards out?"

"We have a plan, remember." Llewellyn pointed out, walking over to Kurt. "Speaking of which, the fuckers won't need these any more." he said, pulling at the deceased fanatic's cloak.

11:31am

The insurrection was now in full swing as fighting erupted all over the Caer. The cultists and their superior numbers were over running any resistance they encountered. On the streets, militia patrols and colonial marshals were being cut down in carefully planned out ambushes. And in many skirmishes, or more accurately massacres, there were no prisoners being taken. Low ranking prisoners that is.

The cultists were now rounding up colonists from their habs, starting with those nearest to the town hall and then spreading out into the inner districts like a cancer spreading through a body. Any militia and marshals they found were killed or crippled, including those whose squads were not activated. The cultists' acquisition of pulse weaponry, either by the armoury or taken from the still warm bodies of slain army troopers was a decisive factor in that engagement. Those army troopers, marshals and militiamen who had been killed in the initial fighting were being picked clean of their gear before being stacked up like logs in the colony square opposite the hall.

An example of the consequences of resistance against the new regime.

In the opening hour of the uprising, the cult had almost a hundred militia, marshals and army personnel killed in ambushes and blitzkrieg attacks while only suffering several dozen in casualties. Their only significant losses were from the assault on the town hall due to that persistent trooper squad. But overall, the element of surprise worked just as well for them as it did for their idols.

Despite the failure to completely eliminate the Colonial Army presence from the colony, having those four troopers escaping the ambush at the town hall, they were considered a naturalised force that was outnumbered and out-gunned by the cult's superior numbers. They would be hunted down and eliminated in due time. There was reports that the Colonel and his personnel at the army base was still resisting, but only in the capacity of a besieged stronghold. They would be dealt with when the time comes. Holdouts of the militia in the inner districts have already been overrun and those who resisted were swiftly killed and the inner district fell under the cult's control. Only those in the outer districts, where cultist numbers were lowest, were still resisting. And it was only a matter of time before those too will fall.

Patriarch Benedict, his freshly donned body suit under his robes, was standing on the high balcony over the entrance to the town hall as he took in the fruits of his conquest. He looked on with the pride that was common with a tyrant that had just crushed all of his opponents. He looked below as a steady stream of colonists were being marched into the town hall. Families huddled close, parents keeping their children between them.

It did not matter if they were separated. Where they were going, all will be together.

Every now and then, almost at random but with an ulterior motive, individuals were picked out from the crowd and hauled off. No doubt off-duty marshals and militiamen to be disposed of. And in some instances they were not even executed off screen but rather in front of everyone as a terrifying show of force. And the number of bodies on the pile slowly grew.

"Everything is just as planned." he said in glee. "All those months of careful planning and patience. The pieces are just falling into place. One by one."

The Patriarch pulled out a small bottle from his robe. Inside, as indicated from the label and logo, was a drug known as Xeno-Zip. This drug, distilled from the royal jelly of xenomorph queen mothers, has the effect of enhancing every major function of the body, the effects of which vary depending on the recipient. The downside is that Xeno-Zip can be quite addicting and the side effects from withdrawal were harsh. Addicts were disparagingly known as Zip-Heads.

In regard to the Xenomorph Extremist beliefs, Xeno-Zip was like ambrosia of the gods. Especially since the drug contained the royal jelly of the Xenomorph Queens. The way to a higher level of existence, despite it's temporary effect. Despite this setback, the most favourable of the 'setbacks', extremist alchemists have been able to formulate many different strains that could enhance specific senses. And because of many black market rackets that dealt in xenomorph contraband, Xeno-Zip had became one of many sources of funding for the cults with many an unsuspecting buyer indirectly aiding them.

Benedict unscrewed the bottle and produced a large amber and slightly green tinged pill before popping it in his mouth and swallowing. Almost instantly, the effects were notable as his optic senses were enhanced, allowing him to see further and pick out more details. He could feel the rush of inner power as the drug was being absorbed into his bloodstream, heightening his senses and filling him with a rejuvenating rush. It made him feel young again.

"Yes." he sighed as euphoric sensations filled every nerve. "Soon, Paradise will come."

Steps were heard as a cultist, decked out in scavenged army trooper armour and his face covered by a ballistics mask scrawled with xenomorphic markings, approached his leader. The markings were reminiscent of the Praetorian caste. The bodyguards of the xenomorph queens. In the various splinter cults, these markings were used to denote rank within the hierarchy structure of the cult as laid by the Xenomorphs. From the lowermost drones of the humdrum cultists to the highest queen mother for the supreme patriarch, all had their place.

"Report." Benedict commanded, readying himself for the good news. "Tell me that the Caer is ours and all resistance has been crushed."

The cultist stood stoic as he broke the news. Bad news.

"Patriarch, we have a problem." the Praetorian reported.

Benedict's elation was brought to a skidding halt with that report. Almost like the Xeno-Zip in his blood had suddenly been rendered inert by some chemical imbalance or if his body had suddenly rejected it. And it was enough to ruin his good mood.

"What?" he asked, his jovial tone immediately replaced with curt annoyance.

"One of our covens at the north wall had been wiped out by a militia squad." the Praetorian reported. "Estimates are that they had been dead for around thirty minutes or more."

The Patriarch turned to him, his mouth curling into a scowl and the lighting from the lamps mounted on the walls brought out his cybernetic eyes under the mask as two darker shadows in the blackness of his ceremonial head wear.

"And?" he asked, gesturing questioningly with his hand. "Why is this brought to me? Why can't you solve it yourself?"

"We... we can't find the militia." the Praetorian admitted, apprehensiveness in his voice.

Benedict waved a hand dismissively at the excuse, scoffing loudly before turning his back to the Praetorian.

"A squad of farmers is hardly any concern." he said, confident that it was no threat. "They'll be dealt with when they show their heads."

"Eminence, it was a patrol that had called in with success." the Praetorian clarified.

This got Benedict's attention as he turned back around and walked closer to the Praetorian. His mouth curled into a grin. A suspicious grin that bordered on the edge of rage. The Praetorian blinked behind his mask as the Patriarch came within a foot of him.

"So we were lied too?" he questioned. "Our brothers had suddenly lost their faith?"

"I think mislead is the proper term." the Praetorian corrected. "One of them, you little messenger, was dead shorter then the rest of the coven. Ballistic decapitation as it were. The rest were found in a dumpster, a mass grave so to speak."

Benedict simply shrugged at the demise of that certain cultist. As is quite often the case in religious fanatics, the lowly dregs are of little concern in the bigger view of things. A means to an end and a pawn with which to sacrifice to win the end game.

"I see." Benedict said in mild and unconcerned mourn, stepping back and the Preatorian inwardly sighed with relief. "A shame. In which case, form patrols, go hunt them down and bring them here. They had proven tenacious and so deserve an audience. And an example must be made." he then leaned closer to the Praetorian, his face an inch from the cultist's mask. "We don't want anyone getting any foolish ideas of resistance." he pulled back and waved a hand at the cultist. "Now, be off with you." he dismissed

The Praetorian bowed his head and left the Patriarch on the balcony, shouting orders over his radio to broadcast to all the covens in the Caer to look out for a squad of militia that was still on the run.

Benedict leant on the railing as the rain continued to fall, the droplets splashing onto his mask and trickling down like the salivating slime of the Xenomorphs. A rumble of thunder was heard and a flash of lightning cracked in the distance straight ahead. To Benedict, it was a sign from God. A sign of a challenge standing in the way of the paradise he was so close to bringing to this world.

"This is but a test from our Lord." he concluded, his hands gripping the railing tightly with a crack. "And we will pass this test. Paradise WILL come."

On cue another crack of lightning flashed. Like a reply from God himself.


	5. Chapter 5

11:34am

Militia Squad Beta carefully made their way through the Caer's outer districts, aided now by their freshly acquired disguises as the rain continued to fall from the dark clouds above. Despite the possibility of being mistaken as the enemy if they ran into friendlies, the advantage of infiltration most of the way to their destination was a boon. If they came across any cultist patrols, they would be able to just walk past if they kept their distance. But they kept their weaponry close at hand, hidden under their cloaks if their options ran dry.

Several times they passed extremist patrols but were able to move past after giving them a customary, though reluctant, wave or a thumbs up to maintain their cover. And most of the time, the cultists were busy indulging in a bit of supplementary looting to take proper notice. In a way, taking a tithe from the subjugated populace.

In the air, echoing around reverberating off buildings, they could still hear the sounds of fighting. Holdouts, colonial militia by the sounds of the gunfire, that were under siege by the cultists. It would appear that the outer districts had suffered less devastation then the inner districts, which was no doubt the focus of the initial attack. But once the cultist's had their foothold established, they would spread out to clear the Caer's outer districts of all resistance. And it was only a matter of time before the holdouts were overrun or ran out of ammunition.

Reaching the boundary of the inner districts, separated by large stone walls with traditional Welsh decorations, they came across a line of dead colonists, militiamen and a few marshals propped up against a section of the wall that was riddled with bullet holes and streaks of blood slowly washing out from its crevices. Those who had resisted and did not have the good fortune of dying in the fight. Instead, they were strung up against the wall and shot like what would happen in many a hostile takeover. And some, from the holes in their heads, had been finished off after the firing squad failed to kill them.

It was sickening, just like all the times in history when fanatics got into power. Using fear as a weapon to impose their beliefs on others. And eradicating all traces of the old order. Essentially using religion as an excuse to commit heinous acts. All in the name of God, and in their eyes, absolving them of any blame.

The squad made certain to get away from the execution grounds before they were noticed. Either by a cultist clean up crew or some vengeful colonists out for blood. The last thing they needed was friendly fire. The squad slipped through the large gate that, as a godsend, was not manned by sentries. The sense of security for the insurrectionists was great enough that they not bothered to post guards at key points.

And that often spelt the difference between total victory or utter defeat. And also by heading straight through the inner districts, the heart of enemy territory, it would be the last thing the cultists would expect. They would not expect the enemy to cut right through their territory if it could be helped.

After ten minutes of travel, the squad eventually stopped at an alley that was no more the six feet apart. A sign post indicated that this was one of the inner districts' habitation blocks. There was also a sign for the town hall and also the nearest inn and recreational complex.

"How far now?" Llewellyn asked, adjusting his goggles which were annoyingly steaming up.

"It should just be in the next district." the marine veteran answered. " Stay calm and keep to the plan."

"Better be. This fucking thing keeps sticking to me!" Kurt complained, his blood stained cloak clinging to his arms.

"I'm sorry, but that extremist did try to slice MY throat." Llewellyn dryly reminded. "Would you rather it was my blood?"

"I'd rather there was NO blood!" Kurt insisted.

Angus adjusted his armoured kilt, among other things, as he looked behind them for any cultists and he coughed sharply when he saw another band of them walking about in their general direction. And with the spoils of their looting in their arms, or in their guts with the case of pilfered alcohol. With that, and with a silent signal from their sergeant, the militiamen moved down into the alley.

Moving down the narrow alley, they hoped to cut through the hab blocks and get to the town hall sooner. Then they heard voices up ahead when they reached the halfway point. Their progress was blocked by an oncoming patrol of cultists, the lights of torches both electric and fire betraying their presence. There was also the sound of windows being smashed, either from looting or just for the hell of it. Law and order was now virtually non-existent. Aside from the theocratic doctrine that was even now being imposed on the civilian populace.

History repeating itself once again.

"Shit." Llewellyn cursed through his teeth.

"Not good." Angus added, looking back up the alley and his brows raised. "You fucking kidding me?!"

Looking back, they could see that the previous group of cultists were loitering around the only the only way out of the ally. There was no way they could get past without them catching on to their true intentions.

"No going back." Dane said, pointing both ways. "We're hemmed in."

"Brilliant." Glenn cursed with annoyance. "What now?"

"Let hope the ruse still works." the sergeant prayed, pulling his hood down further. "If not, take as many with you as you can."

Angus silently flicked his shotgun to both barrels under his cloak. The rest of the squad did the same as Kurt, Glenn and Dane flicked their carbines on automatic and Llewellyn armed his rifle. The sergeant cocked his MP9's bolt with a loud click.

They were about to move forward when the door of the hab to their right opened up. Aiming their weapons, expecting an ambush, they were surprised when it turned out that it was an army trooper at the door. The trooper's armour was damaged and he was sporting recent injuries that had since been hastily patched up. Clearly, he was involved in the initial clashing of the insurrection and was undoubtedly on the losing side.

"Psst! Get in here quick!" the trooper whispered, just audible above the rain.

The militiaman, faced with death at either end of the ally, swiftly rushed through the open door and the trooper shut the door just as the cultists came round the bend. The lead cultist, distinguished by the tattoos on his face, was barking out orders to his group to search the north wall, mixed with blasphemous verses from whatever holy book the xenomorph extremists have concocted.

Inside the dark and clearly ransacked room, clearly a residential unit for a growing family, were three other troopers in hiding positions behind any piece of cover, each in a similar state of wear although one was sporting a sling for his bloodied and bandaged left arm.

"Hide!" the trooper at the door ordered, sliding behind an upturned table.

The militiamen got down on the floor and hid behind the upturned furniture. The cultist patrol reached the building just as Angus whipped his kilt behind the wrecked sofa and one cultist shone a torch through the window, squinting as he looked for any stragglers. Those inside hugged the ground tighter and pressed themselves closer to their hiding places as the beam of light scanned the ruined interior. One of the troopers had his hand on his shoulder-sheathed knife and Llewellyn had his hand to his balisong.

If the cultists decided to investigate, they would need to taken all out swiftly and silently before they gave away their position.

The cultist continued to peer and shine his torch, before noticing that his group had proceeded far ahead and rushed off to rejoin them. After several tense seconds and hearing the chants dim and fade, the trooper marksman cautiously crawled up to the window, his rifle clenched tightly in his hands, and peered up over the windowsill before sighing in relief.

"They're gone." he called out.

Everyone stood up in relief. The militiamen took this chance to remove their disguises, tossing the rain and blood soaked cloaks onto the couch. Kurt took this opportunity to wash himself of the coagulated blood that smeared his jacket and vest with the still functioning kitchen sink.

"That was too close." a trooper cursed, cracking his neck from his contorted position behind the sofa. "I hope you civvies are worth it."

"We're not dead yet." Glenn pointed out, waving his bloodied hand at them.

"What if they come back?" Llewellyn asked.

"Don't worry, they already looted this hab." The marksman explained, his back to the window. "They won't be checking it again unless they had too."

Angus walked up to the window and kept a silent watch, checking his shotgun's magazine before topping it up with a few spare shells from his belt. The marksman walked over to the militia, sitting his rifle on it's stock at his feet.

"Introductions." the marksman began the formalities. "I'm Corporal Hendricks, acting CO of 2nd squad, 3rd platoon. Alpha Company."

"Militia Sergeant Hansen, Beta Squad." the veteran greeted, holding a hand out. "Formally of the Marines."

The two soldiers then gave each other the customary fist bump.

"We didn't think we would see any friendly faces." Hendricks said, relief on his face as he pulled off his helmet, showing off his army issue crew cut. "Not this long after the initial attack."

Kurt came walking back in, wiping his now clean attire with an increasingly red stained towel. He had also taken the initiative of grabbing what food was left in the kitchen, in this case a pack of Aurock Jerky.

"What are you troopers doing hiding in here?" Kurt asked, tossing the towel back into the kitchen. "Isn't it your job to defend the colony?"

That provoked some dry humourless chuckles from the troopers as he opened the bag and began gnawing on a piece of cured meat.

"Defend the colony?!" the trooper in the sling scoffed. "That's a good one!"

"Try going through what we'd been through THEN ask us about our job." another trooper added, pointing to a large gouge, a bullet impact, in his helmet. "My head is still ringing."

"Oh, we have a good idea." Angus said, patting his shotgun's red tinged stock.

Hendricks pulled up his rifle and held it on his shoulder.

"As if our current state wasn't obvious, the whole platoon got wiped out." Hendricks pointed out, pointing to his damaged armour and holding his rifle up to emphasis his point. "Those fuckers out there had gotten into the armoury, to your heavy weaponry cache." He then pointed to his three squad mates. "We're the only ones to have gotten away from the ambush at the town hall."

"You're the only ones left?" Hansen asked credulously. "They took you all out?"

"There's still guys at the base, but they got hit hard too. Suicide runs from the sound of it on the comms. Security gates were knocked out and the walls had multiple breaches." Hendricks explained. "Before we lost contact with base, they said they were under siege by cultists. Bunkered up in the main barracks and the command centre for the moment. No word from Colonel Franz, but at least they have perimeter sentry units to even the odds."

Hansen rubbed his chin in thought as he processed what the corporal reported. He had a hunch, regarding the tactics used, that this attack had taken a lot of planning and consideration in regard to the Caers military presence. The rest of his squad were taking the news that the army was not going to be helping them rather well. Aside from some quiet cursing and muttering of defeatism.

"What about everyone in the town hall?" Hansen asked.

Hendricks sat down on the sofa, chucking the bundled cloaks aside and wiping his stained hand on the torn upholstery.

"If they were part of the armed forces or law enforcement, don't expect them to take prisoners. Unless they're officers." Hendricks answered. "Everyone else would either be executed as an example for the hell of it or being saved for use as hosts."

That last word struck a cord with the militiamen.

"Hosts?" Angus asked before his eyes widened and his beard twitched. "Wait a minute, you mean these fanatic bastards have got bug eggs?!"

"Only reason they would take prisoners. Just like their 'Messiahs'." Hansen reminded. "Seen this several times before. Not even children are spared. Virgin hosts you see, if they didn't have their way with them first."

Kurt, still gnawing on his piece of jerky tossed the bag over to Llewellyn. He took a piece, clenched it in his teeth before tossing the bag to Dane. In turn, the militiamen had one piece each, either gnawing on it or stowing it in a pouch for later consumption. The bag was offered to the troopers but they declined the snacks for now.

Hendricks sat his rifle on his lap, tapping it's receiver before informing the militia of another detail. Something that often was coupled whenever Xeno Extremists reared their religiously murderous heads.

"An OSIRIS agent sent out a warning a week ago, saying that a freighter smuggling xenomorph eggs was last reported heading in our general direction." Hendricks briefed. "That freighter that crashed a month back? That was the freighter in question and these fuckers got to it first."

Hendricks then griped the rifle's stock tightly as the word sunk in with the militiamen. If OSIRIS was involved then it was a clear indication that the shit was really hitting the proverbial fan. Such was the nature of that organisation's fight against the enemies of Earth.

"And the way I figure it, regarding the date the freighter crashed, they're planning on using the harvest to spread to other worlds as soon as this one had a hive established." he predicted. "They fill the freighters up with hosts, a hive will be spawned on the way to their destination and when it lands, BOOM, instant infestation."

"What about the OSIRIS agent?" Hansen asked.

"Colonel Franz had briefed to platoon leaders and officers that she was arriving at the Caer within days after checking with the other Caers." Hendricks explained. "Process of elimination and all. There had already been an extensive search operation in the south. And, as it has been blatantly proven, all trails that hadn't been washed away by the rains pointed to here."

Hansen tapped the butt of his MP9 several times in thought before he had a question in regards to OSIRIS. A question regarding their chosen methods of operating.

"Is this agent acting alone?" he asked.

"From what I know, she was part of a group." Hendricks explained. "So, we could expect her to have a squad of Sods with her at the most."

Sods was a nickname, a derogatory one, for the Special Operations Division. The military arm of OSIRIS. Hand picked from all the armed forces, armed with the latest weaponry available and trained to the highest standard, Spec Ops troops are used for missions that involve the most clandestine of nature. The usual fare of which would be assassinating xenomorph queens and directly engaging yautja hunting parties.

Not exactly something that a conventional force could attempt if it could be helped.

But the mention of these elite soldiers did little to dissuade the marine veteran.

"In which case, they better get here pronto." Hansen hoped. "Otherwise there'll be nothing left for them to fight." he added with a dash of marine bravado.

The Colonial Marines, for as long as it had been established, have always claimed to be the 'Ultimate Bad Asses' of humanity. But, only those who had survived a xenomorph infestation or a yautja hunt can rightfully claim that title. Until then, anyone who claims otherwise was regarded as spineless posers or those seeking attention. Many veterans, who have the scars and the traumatising memories to bear, would demand proof is such a braggart was causing a stir. And the penalty was best left to the imagination as many veterans had their own methods of 'setting the record straight'.

As the phrase goes: Survive the hive and claim the prize.

But while this banter of bravado and such was good for morale purposes, it was no substitute for actual military hardware. Fighting spirit could only take a soldier so far. Bullets were far more pragmatic.

Angus, munching on his bit of jerky was looking through the window, suddenly held a hand up while frantically waving at them to shut up. He almost chocked on his meat to warn them, spitting it aside.

"Shh!" Angus hushed, ducking under the windowsill. "One of them is coming back."

He was right as a shadow slowly hovered over the door's window. And everyone ducked into cover again, making as little noise as possible. Angus on the other hand hid close to the door, keeping his shotgun ready to ambush the interloper.

The door slowly slid opened and a cultist poked his head in, looking around the room for a moment. A deadly pause hung over the room as the cultist stepped inside. Not having a torch on hand to illuminate his surroundings, the darkness provided much needed cover for the hiding troopers and militiamen. But that did not stop the fanatic from entering the hab for a closer look.

The previous ransacking at the beginning of the insurrection had taken out the lighting in the hab, so the extremists' mistake was the militia's gain.

The cultist stepped forward towards the sofa, running his hands over the material for guidance and paused when he brushed upon one of the discarded cloaks. Feeling stickiness upon his fingers, he paused for a moment before investigating. Picking up the bloodied material, he looked at it up close and smelt it to determine what the substance was, his nose cringing at the rotting stench of clotted decaying blood.

Angus took this cue to sneak up and take him out, carefully placing his feet down to avoid any sudden creaks from the floorboards. The cultist dumped the cloak back on the sofa, wiping his hand on his armoured vest as Angus crept right next to him.

"Excuse me, laddie." He greeted as the cultist spun round in surprise. "You're intruding."

Before the intruder could so much as respond by sound or action, Angus swung his shotgun's stock into the cultist's gut, driving the wind out of his lungs with a audible thump. Before he could even breath, the militia was on him with a flurry of blows from their weapons, smashing the cultist into the floor. Llewellyn quickly shoved a handful of bloodied bandages, courtesy of the army troopers into the struggling cultist's mouth to gag him as the squad dragged him deeper into the hab. Angus quickly shut the door before any more cultists popped up from investigating the sounds of a scrap.

The troopers moved in keeping their weapons trained on the cultist as the militia restrained the now bruised and bleeding fanatic.

"Check him." Hendricks ordered, keeping his rifle trained at the cultist's head. "Make sure he's not wearing a vest."

After a more then thorough search, of which there was thankfully no suicide vest, the cultist was tied to a chair with the manhandling of a bouncers throwing an unruly reveller onto the muddy streets. The troopers provided the bindings with some paracord rope and the cultist was bound securely.

The cultist was retching loudly at the taste of clotted blood in every corner of his mouth as all of his possessions were laid out on the floor. A pistol, dagger, a pipe bomb and a radio were acquired, along with a map of the Caer of which certain areas were highlighted in xenomorphic script. Hideouts and arms caches of smuggled or improvised weapons. If they survived this insurrection, this would prove in valuable in charging those who took part in it's preparations and operation.

And it was also a chance to increase their own armoury stores if they had the chance.

Upon closer examination of his clothing, the most notable were long rubber gaiters that went past his knees, it was determined that this cultist was in fact a maintenance technician. A worker responsible for the maintaining of the underground sewers and drains that prevented the Caer from flooding. And no doubt would have been useful as a guide to navigate the underground passageways for a perfect ambush position.

Could be the reason why they spread so far without being noticed.

"Doesn't look comfortable, does it?" Angus said, seeing how tight the bonds were.

"More then he deserves." Glenn spat, punching the cultist on the cheek "Fucking psychos."

The cultist's head rolled and he grunted as another bruise began to emerge on his bleeding face. He was holding up quite well, despite the vicious beating the militia gave him. Evidently, he was going to need a little more coercion if he was to spill the beans. And the veteran was just the person to do it.

Hansen began the interrogations as Hendricks gave the go ahead with a nod. And he was determined to get every ounce of information from this fanatic. In the usual marine corps way of not taking taking the slightest bullshit.

"Time for talk." Hansen announced, pulling up a chair and sitting face to face with the bound cultist. "Now, we can be civilised and discuss this like gentlemen. Or, if you're feeling reluctant, we can see how long you can last in a test of endurance with Angus." he proposed.

Angus cracked his knuckles for emphasis and an evil grin peeled from his red beard. Llewellyn standing next to him simply lit his cigar now that he had a chance to, keeping the flame from his lighter lit at the end as a gesture of imminent and horrible torture.

The cultist glared at them all, his eyes narrowing into slits seething with spite towards the infidels.

"I'm not telling you anything, heathen." he defiantly proclaimed. "My faith is unbreakable."

Without knowing it, the cultist had just crossed that transparently fine line.

Hansen, sighing in feigned resignation, simply drew his knife from it's sheath, flipped it blade down and stabbed it into the cultist's knee. The cultist stifled a scream of pain as the trooper gagged him with the bloody bandages again. The knife was buried a third of the way in until it hit bone.

"Your faith, maybe. But the flesh is not." Llewellyn corrected, flicking his lighter shut and blowing out a draft of smoke. "Your buddies up the north wall learned that the hard way."

Angus patted his shotgun's stock, stained red from the blood of the cranial impaired cultist, with added emphasis. The cultist bowed his head as the pain in his knee flared up violently, blood seeping out from the wound as the knife stayed still for the moment.

"Focus." Hansen ordered, slapping the cultist about the face. "Eyes front."

The cultist looked at him as tears started to well as the bandages were removed. Seemed that he was not as tough as he claimed. He was not a soldier and he certainly did not receive any training in anti-interrogation conditioning. Just a lowly cog in the cult's machine.

"Now, you will cooperate or I'll pop your knee off." Hansen warned, griping the knife tighter for emphasis. "Now tell me, who is behind this insurrection."

The cultist hissed through his teeth as the pain continued to assault his brain. The threat of mutilation was succeeding in breaking down his will.

"The Patriarch." he said, through clenched teeth. "The Patriarch planned all this. For months before the freighter crashed, he was preparing for it's arrival."

That answer wasn't good enough. For one, the cultist was withholding the leader's name. And two, they had already surmised that the cultists had been preparing for the Caer to fall to them so quickly if they had the numbers. And that required time and resources that only their patriarch could provide.

Hansen furrowed his brows and that made the cultist's eyes widen in dread.

"WHO?" Hansen clarified, gripping the knife so tightly that his knuckles cracked.

Hansen twisted the knife and the sickening sound of crunching cartilage filled the air as the cultist yelled in pain, swiftly gagged again with a pair of hands clamped onto his mouth muffle out the screaming. Hansen kept it up for several long seconds before he straightened the knife and the cultist's screamed dulled down into a sob as the gag was removed.

"Benedict!" the cultist spilled. "Desmond Benedict!"

Llewellyn's cigar drooped in his mouth when he heard the name.

"Desmond Benedict." he repeated, pulling his cigar from his mouth. "I heard that name mentioned a few times at The Red Dragon. Respected land owner in the south."

"So that means he had been doing more then ploughing mud this year." Hansen thought loudly. "I swear he's lost more then his sight in the Storm." he resumed his attention back to the cultist. "Now we got that out of the way, how many eggs does the bastard have?" he questioned.

The cultist sobbing faded as the pain began to numb out. Then he noticed that Hansen was starting to twist the blade embedded in his leg.

"Two dozen, maybe three." he quickly revealed. "He's gonna use them in the town hall. Midday."

"And how many of you are there?" Hansen questioned, subtly twisting the knife. "Give me your strength in men?"

"Six hundred brothers and sisters." the cultist revealed as pain flared in his knee. "Plus another two hundred in your Caer."

Eight hundred cultists. Less then that when you take into consideration the cultists the squad killed at the north wall, those that the army troopers had killed during their withdrawal and those killed in fighting all over the Caer. But still, over six hundred cultists left in the Caer was far more then they could hope to take on. They could get away with engaging small patrols if they were swift enough but if all the cult converged on them, they would not survive even five minutes if they were caught in a trap.

Regardless of the obstacles that were now in their way, the militiamen and army troopers had all the information they needed.

"We don't have much time then." Hendricks said. "We'll need to get to the relay tower and send the call."

This provoked a reaction from the cultist as the aura of defiance returned.

"You never get out of here." the cultist warned. "They'll come looking for me and they'll find you. And then you'll be on your knees!"

Hansen raised a brow at that fanatic's assertions. And this caused the bravado of the cultist to wane.

"Your friends will be back?" Hansen questioned before an insidious smile crept on his face. "Good, we could use a diversion."

He pulled the knife out of the cultist's knee, provoking a stifled yell from the cultist. The veteran turned to Hendricks and his troopers.

"Do you troopers have any grenades?" Hansen asked, wiping the blade clean on the cultist's vest.

The troopers nodded as they pulled out the frag grenades that they were not able to use during the ambush. Hansen reached into a webbing pocket, pulling out a roll of tape and tossed it to the troopers. Sheathing his knife, he then picked up the cultist's dagger from the floor and held it suggestively, running his thumb along the edge like a hunter about to skin his kill.

"What... what are you doing?!" the cultist demanding as Hansen walked behind him.

The tip of the dagger scraped the back of his neck as the militia sergeant idly stood behind him. And the way that the militia and army troopers just stood there staring at him was filling him with fear and dread. The kind that came when the realisation that your life was about to end. Especially when Dane turned his back to him and plugged his ears.

"I read about a trick that the Vietcong did during the Vietnam War in the 1960's." Hansen reminisced, bringing the dagger's curved tip to the base of the cultist's skull. "Don't worry, you won't feel a thing. This is your 'messiahs' technique and all." he assured as he brought a fist up.

Sure enough as predicted the patrol did return to the hab when the cultist failed to report back. But by then, the militia and army troopers had long fled. Entering the hab unit, they found their missing comrade laying face down on the floor, bloodied and unmoving. The cultists gathered around their fallen brother as the lead cultist knelt down to examine the body. A puncture wound at the base of the skull with a ribbed hilt jutting out showed that the cultist had indeed been brained by his own dagger. Grabbing it by the shoulder, he pulled the body onto it's back and the sounds of loud metallic pinging was heard. The last thing they saw was the sight of half a dozen primed frag grenades strapped to the dead cultist's chest before the explosions shredded them in a hailstorm of shrapnel.

11:55am

The rain continued to pelt the Caer as the sounds of sporadic fighting could still be heard echoing over the rooftops. Gunshots and explosion filled the air as more isolated holdouts of militia were being overrun. The cultists were now spreading out from the inner districts to cement their control on the outer districts. Pockets of resistance by colonial militia and marshalls were being engaged by ever increasing patrols. Colonial forces were making the cultists pay for every single step. But the cultists had the advantage of numbers and a ready supply of munitions.

And it was only a matter of time before the outer districts fell.

In the town hall, oblivious or uncaring to the happenings and atrocities going on in the Caer, discipline was being administered to the uncooperative. The Patriarch was busy subjecting the colonial administrator, Mayor Driscoll, to some forced conversion. The colonists have been arranged into lines like they were sitting in pews like in a church. And they were mortified at the treatment that the mayor was being subjected to.

The still bodies of the army lieutenant and the chief marshal on the plinth showed that the Patriarch was having less success then he hoped for. Each had a ragged hole in their foreheads, blood that was now slowly trickling into the large pools beneath, just like the pastor before them.

There was the occasional clash of lightning erupting outside, coupled with the unceasing rain that was pelting the windows and the stone walls of the town hall in an almost deafening cacophony of nature against man. But not as deafening as the ranting that the Patriarch was venting.

And with each refusal, and each subsequent beating and execution, Patriarch Benedict was losing his patience.

"This is an honour!" Benedict roared, striking Mayor Driscoll across the face with his cane. "And you refuse it!?"

Driscoll winced as his bruised cheek finally ruptured and blood began to trickle forth down to his chin and slowly dripping to the floor. He hissed from between his teeth as he rose his head up for the fourth time, his swollen cheek bearing a spring of crimson from it's pores. His eye had swollen shut in a hue of purple and could only manage a squint. Despite the increasingly detrimental treatment he was getting, he was not breaking as a true leader should.

It took strong men and women to rule.

The mayor spat some blood threaded spit at the Patriarch's feet as a reply. The red and white froth, draped over one shoe and Benedict's scowl betrayed his disgust at the crude message of defiance.

"An honour?" Driscoll spat as Benedict wiped his shoe on the dead marshall's jacket. "I lost family to these things during the Infestation. There was no honour in waiting for one of those bugs to burst out from them!"

He then flinched as he expected the Patriarch to lash at him again as he raised his cane. But, more hauntingly, Benedict simply scoffed as he lowered his cane.

"As did we all. We all lost something when the Great Cleansing came to Earth." Benedict preached, before pointing his cane at the mayor. "But you survived, meaning you were meant for a greater purpose. THIS purpose at THIS time. One of the repentant herd."

As was often the case, the fanatical would often work and twist the facts in order to justify their beliefs. Human nature as it were. But, and this was the overriding factor against them, they knowingly and willingly made that fateful decision.

One of the doors by the plinth opened up with a notable clunk of wood and two cultists came walking through, heaving a large and obviously battered metal crate between them.

"Ah, here is the first of God's bounty." Benedict praised, holding his cane high.

The cultists heaved up the crate, almost slipping on the still blood slicked floor and placed it reverently on the plinth. Benedict walked up to it and ran his hand over the metal lid. He began to reverently caress it's battered and scuffed plating. Damage it had sustained from impact during the freighter's crash landing in the South.

"Perfect!" he praised. "Now, be useful and get rid of these bodies." He ordered, idly waving a hand at them.

The two cultists, getting the message to 'bugger off', each grabbed a body by the legs and dragged the former marshal and lieutenant out of the hall, leaving two red streaks behind them. Non doubt they would be added to the log-like piles that had been steadily growing throughout the day. This left the Patriarch to continue his reverent caressing of the crate.

"Our brothers managed to send these off before your accursed Federation murdered them." he revealed, resentment lacing his voice. "Paradise was denied to that world, but by their sacrifice they ensured Paradise would come to this world."

He looked down to the masses, a grin peeling on his face.

"In a few hours, the sun will be at it's peak for this dreary planet." Benedict informed the masses. "And with that the ceremony will begin. And from you all, our Messiahs will be born to bring us to Paradise."

Clearly, this revealing information was a link towards the Celtic traditions of Wales' past. A time when worship of nature and that of the sun was prevalent. Such traditions from many older cultures had been carried over to the next generation of faiths.

Driscoll shook his head in disbelief as murmurs were heard from his captive people. No matter how much sugar-coating could be applied. The prospect of having an infant xenomorph bursting from your chest was hardly appealing.

"If you're so self-righteous, it should be you in my place." Driscoll dared. "But you won't because, like your kind, you would never do what you order your lackeys to do."

This was a fact, and above all a truth, that could not be denied. Patriarchs were never known to actually go through the implantation process, despite the honour it supposedly brings. The prospect of self sacrifice was hardly an incentive when others were so willing to take their place. Often the gullible looking for an easy path to heaven.

Even if Salvaje, the First Patriarch, had gone through with the procedure at the Bionational Corp facility in Lima at the very beginning of the Infestation. With the xenomorph queen that the corporation had acquired.

And that scornful point struck a nerve in the Patriarch. He slowly turned his head at the mayor and bared his teeth in the same manner as a xenomorph about to pounce on it's prey.

"But, as this a special occasion, you will be the first."Benedict decided, pointing an accusative finger at him. "An example for the rest of your people to follow in due time."

"There's nothing I wouldn't ask my people to do that I wouldn't do myself." Driscoll mockingly quoted.

He was answered for this defiant quoting as Benedict walked over and lashed out with his cane. It connected to Driscolls face so hard that it tore his already battered cheek open with a loud crack as bone fractured. That was almost enough to knock out the mayor from sheer kinetic force. His bad eye was now clenched tightly from the sheer pain throbbing from his cheek as blood began a steady trickle down his cheek and dripping from his chin.

"Then let me help you on the way, shall we?" Benedict proposed walking back to the crate. "Bring him." He commanded to the nearest cultists.

Benedict twisted the lock on the crate, a loud hiss of pressurised air filled the silent hall and he pulled of the lid with a resounding clang before setting it aside. Inside the slowly clearing mist that filled the crate was one of the holiest relics that the xenomorph extremists could hope to obtain.

A xenomorph egg.

The foundation of any infestation.

Benedict swiftly stepped back from the egg before it could register his presence and snapped his fingers loudly. Two of the cultists standing guard on the plinth grabbed Driscoll by his shoulders and hauled him over towards the egg before roughly holding his head over it. Driscoll resisted with every fibre of being as the egg registered his proximity with a twitch. Within seconds, the four sealed petals opened up with the squelching bending of flesh, revealing a capsule of muscle and pulsating arteries that housed the facehugger within.

Driscoll breathed heavily as thin spiderlike fingers protruded out from the sphincter in the centre before the whole thing opened up. Memories of the infestation played in his mind, provoking a cold sweat to form on his balding head, as he saw an all too familiar shape beginning to climb out.

 _Driscoll in his youth, a man of twenty two and part of a refugee column from the ravaged capital city of Cardiff, helplessly watching as his girlfriend was subdued by facehugger during an ambush of xenomorphs at the urban outskirts. His parents, further ahead in the convoy, were taken away by the xenomorph drones, to be hived back in the city._

 _And, looking behind him, how one facehugger was pouncing straight towards him until a policeman shot it from the air. Then said policeman was pounced by a xenomorph warrior and killed by a headbite. Running through the bloodied streets, Driscoll saw other people being captured by the drones, facehuggers pouncing and latching onto screaming faces, and the soldiers and police that were futilely trying to protect them against the warriors._

 _But the xenomorphs' numbers were too great as dozens just kept coming for every xenomorph killed. Driscoll by the skin of his teeth avoided a grim fate when he managed to board an APC before it sealed it's doors. The last thing he saw as the doors sealed was the screams of those unfortunates who did not have the luck of dying that day as the xenomorphs engulfed everything._

Driscoll narrowly avoided his parent's fate that day and many times after during the five years of infestation, serving as part of the Welsh Resistance as a logistics officer and scavenger. But for decades afterwards, like many a survivor of a xenomorph incident, he would be plagued by vivid nightmares. Coming to Amaethon IV after the infestation was a chance for a fresh start, a chance to put the past behind him and move on with his life. By his fortieth year, after serving in the running of the colony, he was elected to Colonial Administrator where he served for over twenty years.

And now history was repeating itself. Only this time there was no avoiding this fate again.

Driscoll looked up to the smirking patriarch and fixed him with a penetrating leer with his one good eye.

"I hope my 'child' guts you alive." Driscoll vowed to Benedict as the facehugger's whip-like tail coiled up in front of his face.

The facehugger, it's target set, jumped onto the mayor's face, wrapping it's tail around his neck with an audible crack before planting itself on his face within the span of a split second. Driscoll resisted as survival instincts motioned him to resist. But in the end, the proboscis was forced past his clenched teeth, slid down his throat with a chocked gargle and within moments he lost consciousness as anaesthesia inducing chemicals, coupled with the lack of oxygen, invaded his body.

Now the facehugger could commence implantation without a struggle.

"And I will be ready to take it into my embrace." Benedict assured, walking off to gather an essential component. "With the proper blessing, of course."

The colonists watching recoiled in horror as, the moment the mayor's body went limp, the cultists dragged him away to a platform that had been constructed around one of the hall pillars and stood him against it before tying him up into a hived position with his arms stretched out like on a crucifix. Benedict walked over to the strung up mayor, holding a small ornamented metal urn that was obviously holding holy water and began to sprinkle it on the facehugger, causing it to twitch in response to this libation.

"Oh Lord, bless this man with the seed of your everlasting glory." Benedict prayed, continuing to flick holy water onto the facehugger and Driscoll. "Purify his soul for his sacrifice for your divine plan upon us."

One of the attending cultists then brandished a hypodermic needle before jabbing it into the mayor's neck. The contents, a mix of nutritional supplements and accelerators, was injected into Driscoll's bloodstream to give the implanted embryo a boost in it's development. The sooner it was born, the sooner that a hive could be established.

The Xenomorph Extremists had spent millions in bioengineering technology for this purpose.

"And by your will, Paradise will Come." Benedict finished, giving the facehugger another flick of the hand.

The main doors opened and a cultist, the praetorian that had reported the destroyed coven earlier in the morning, came running in from the rains, trailing water and mud from his cloak. The hostages watched as he headed to the Patriarch and his body language spoke of urgency and also great anxiety.

Was he the bearer of bad news?

"Patriarch." he called out, skidding to a halt at the plinth. "A development had occurred."

Benedict stopped flicking water at the interruption but did not bother to face the cultist. He straightened his back and held the urn to his chest as the facehugger twitched on the mayor's face.

"What is it?" he asked, irritation starting to surface as he placed the lid back on. "I am in the middle of communion."

"Those militia you sent us to find." the Praetorian reported before he took a deep breath. "We... can't find them."

Benedict at that point turned to face the cultist and walked over to the edge of the plinth before bending down over the cultist. It was intimidating to say the least as the master of the cult bored down on him like an actual xenomorph. The mask certainly helped fit the bill.

"What do you mean, 'You can't find them'?" Benedict questioned. "They are not that easy to ignore. So, why have you not found them?!"

The Praetorian paused for a prolonged amount of time, trying to think what to tell his superior without incurring his wrath. This notable hesitation was enough for Benedict's patience to begin wearing. The Patriarch leaned closer so that he was almost face to face with the Praetorian. Like a xenomorph about to head bite it's prey.

"Well?" Benedict asked, hostility seeping into his voice. "What is the fuck up, this time?"

The Praetorian loosened his cloak around his neck as he reported the details of this slight inconvenience.

"It appears that they wiped out another coven by using a dead brother as explosive bait. In the inner sector. Covering their tracks so to say." he explained. "The hab was completely wrecked, bodies scattering the ground. These farmers are more tenacious then expected."

The Patriarch rose up with astonishment curling his mouth into a sarcastic smile. He did hear an explosion while 'converting' the masses but he merely assumed that it was another skirmish. Clearly, it was of a different intent.

"I was wondering what the bang was." he said, before the smile left his face. "And I thought we had finally ended that fucking siege at the army base."

Benedict then unceremoniously tossed the urn of holy water over his shoulder, spraying water behind him and clattering loudly off the plinth, causing the facehugger's tail to tense up with an audible crunch. It summed up the Patriarch's opinion on the current turn of events.

The turn of events being that even though they had effectively crushed any meaningful resistance in the Caer, besides holding the remaining army garrison under siege at their own base, they had a group of militia running around unchecked and unhindered.

"If they're thinking of attacking us here on a rescue sortie for our hosts then they are foolishly wasting their lives." Benedict scoffed before his mouth thinned into a scornful grimace. "But seeing as they made it this far without conflict, and killing so many of the faithful in the process, then they are a problem that we cannot ignore any longer."

He then pointed a finger at the Praetorian imposingly.

"Find them and eliminate them." he commanded.

"Your eminence..." the cultist started before Benedict slammed his foot loudly on the plinth.

The Patriarch was not having any excuses for such a simple task.

"I don't care if it costs you. We have the advantage of numbers. They don't." Benedict reminded scornfully. "Find them and eliminate them! Send out every brother or sister if you must, but don't let them interfere here! The progeny needs time to grow!"

The Praetorian bowed his head and dashed out back into the rain. Two guards then moved up to shut the doors as Benedict walked back to the hived mayor. He watched as the facehugger clamped it's spindly arachnid-like fingers over the mayor's limp head at his presence. In his mind he could make out apprehension in the parasite. Apprehension of it's safety.

Benedict reached out a hand and gently began to pet the facehugger's ribbed back with reverent assurance.

"Salvaje's dream must not be thwarted again." Benedict urged to the parasite. "Paradise must come for mankind!"

The facehugger's tail tightened around Driscoll's neck, provoking a subconscious gargle from the mayor, as if in agreement.


	6. Chapter 6

12:06AM

The army troopers and militiamen came upon the main transmitter tower for the colony's communications relay, located next door to the army base. It was an array of smaller support buildings and small bunkers lining up to the main tower, a massive reinforced concrete and stone pillar with a main dish relay on top. As they surmised for a strategic location, it was guarded by a sizable number of extremists and they had time to build up defences since taking the Caer. But, in terms of discipline and readiness, they were lacking to say the least as they were under the assumption that the Caer was fully in their control.

But as they hoped, the explosive diversion had caused a bit of an uproar among the cult's numbers. Much so that a significant number of cultists had been sent to investigate. Now the militia and army troopers had to take advantage of it before they came back from their futile search. It was fortunate that it took the cult so long to react to it.

That was one weakness for some Xeno Extremist splinter cults. They often won't make a move without their patriarch's approval. Suspicion leading to paranoia was often the main culprit in lack of initiative as the most cunning leaders were wary of threats within the ranks.

A stark difference with their 'Messiahs' as Xenomorphs never put their own gain above that of the hive. As the saying goes: You don't see bugs fucking each other over for god-damn percentage.

The way to the relay was surprisingly easy. There had not been any patrols in their way and only a few lone layabouts pillaging the empty habs and the dead. Nothing that a quick knife to the back of the head couldn't handle and they were sure to hide the bodies to avoid leaving a bloody trail of figurative breadcrumbs.

Taking shelter in an abandoned hab unit two blocks away from the tower, they debated their next move. They had a plan of action in the works. Some of the militia would pose as cultists who had just captured the army troopers and needed to report to the Patriarch. The rest would get into positions to make a diversionary attack once the group got inside the tower. But, they needed heavier firepower then just the standard issue militia gear if they were going to take the tower. Hopefully they could acquire some more weaponry once they were in.

The closest arms cache that was on the way had gave little in spoils, having been emptied before and after the initial fighting. But a handful of overlooked ammunition packs was better then nothing.

Llewellyn was up in the hab's communal attic, laying prone at a hole blasted into the roof and looking through his scope as he took in the patrol patterns of the cultist garrison. Hendricks laying next to him was looking through his scope too, providing a second set of eyes keeping track of the enemy. Downstairs, the militiamen was dividing themselves up into their respected parties. Angus however was proving less then pleased of donning the cultist cloaks again. Especially being that Kurt handed him the most blood stained of them. The army troopers were busy stripping off their packs and handing the militia their weapons, though they were keeping a concealed blade on their persons.

Every now and again, the sound of gunfire was heard coming from the main base, either the sentry guns locked onto targets or someone exchanging fire. The siege was still going as the army personnel hold up in the barracks continued to resist. And, judging by the number of dead and wounded cultists being dragged away from the fighting, the Army was making them pay for every step.

And as if to rub more salt into the wound, they could hear a familiar song being played in Welsh over the base's loudspeakers. A song that spoke of defiance against overwhelming odds.

Men of Harlech.

"Seems the diversion worked." Hendricks praised. "They got a skeleton crew on duty. And they're hardly taking their jobs seriously."

Llewellyn nodded in agreement to that observation. Obviously the only action around here was the siege of the base and these cultists looked in no hurry to join it. Not that he could blame them as the idea of being funnelled into a meat grinder was unappealing to even the most zealous attacker. Llewellyn then noticed something happening at the main gate.

"What's this?" he said, getting Hendricks' attention. " Down at the gate."

Looking down their scopes, they saw that a patrol of cultists had returned with a group of colonists in tow, all bound and being hauled along in a chain like slaves to the market. Among them was a militiaman and also a colonial marshal who were no doubt unlucky stragglers. Evidently from a holdout that had been overrun. The cultists at the gate merely waved them through while idly ticking off a series of tally marks on the wall for each prisoner caught. Along with a customary beating of the militiaman and marshal.

"Looks like they are taking prisoners." Hendricks surmised. "No doubt as more hosts."

From what they could see scrawled on the wall, there was a prisoner count of twelve colonists, four militiamen and two marshals.

"That should help us." Hendricks added. "If they've been getting prisoners all day, it means they're getting lax in searching them." He lowered his scope. "We move now." he decided, moving from his perch.

Heading downstairs, they came to the rest of their group as the army troopers were rehearsing their surprise attack. Several times they practised the motions of breaking their binds, grabbing their hidden knives hidden under their amour and lashing out at targets in multiple directions. In such circumstances, they would have only one chance to get it right and they didn't want to screw it up. The trooper with his bloodied arm shot himself up with pain killers before removing his sling. He gave a slight wince as the meds began to blot out the worst of pain as he flexed his arm.

Hansen came walking up, cloaked up and his submachine gun on his shoulder from his sentry position by the door.

"Well, are we good?" he asked.

"Not too many of them at the gate." Hendricks revealed. "And they're just waving everyone in. We should be good for a clean entry."

"Oh yeah?" Kurt said, unbelievingly as he pulled his hood up. "And what happens if our cover is blown right in the middle of the mob?"

Murmurs of agreement came from the militiamen at the mention of blown cover, a very good issue to take care of. The prospect of being surrounded by dozens of fanatics, and right in the line of fire, was hardly an attractive proposition. Hendricks however had a plan in the case of there being more resistance then expected. But, as it turned out, that depended on one crucial thing.

"This might be a tall order, but was anyone a CAP trooper?" Hendricks asked.

Hansen, despite having served in the armed forces was not qualified to even maintain a power loader, shook his head as did most of his squad, them being merely farm hands or truck drivers. Llewellyn, on the other hand, raised his hand as this was just the sort of thing that he was qualified for. And what he was supposed to have been doing yesterday instead of trudging down mud roads in a waterlogged tractor.

"I can operate a power loader." Llewellyn offered. "Class 2 rating."

Hendricks looked at his comrades for their input and they unanimously nodded.

"Okay, same thing applies to Centurions. Only with more guns." Hendricks compared, pulling out a map from a webbing pouch. "And that's what we need."

He unfurled the map and laid it across the table as everyone gathered. It was a map of the army complex and it's surroundings, with the important sections such as the command centre and the transmitter tower highlighted. There was also the main armoury, outer barracks and garages, the latter of which was located at the far ends of the compound.

"We got a centurion in the vehicle garage. It was undergoing retrofitting before the garrison left for the Wolds." Hendricks revealed, pointing on the map. "Hopefully, the weapons would still be attached."

"Yeah but if we get caught..." Llewellyn started before Hansen patted him on the shoulder.

"Let 'us' worry about getting caught." the veteran reminded.

"Don't worry. A centurion packs the firepower of an entire platoon and the armour of a light tank. You'll be fine." Hendricks assured. "It'll withstand an PRG or two... if it's a glancing hit."

"In which case he is going to need infantry support." Hansen pointed out. "Exosuits may be game changers, but they still need support if they get swarmed."

Like all armoured vehicles, even exosuits still need infantry support to ensure its survival against determined anti armour units. Or a sudden rush of xenomorphs from the flanks as was often the case. Superior numbers was always a deciding factor.

Hendricks turned to one of the troopers, a rifleman with a celtic cross tattooed on his left cheek and a cog symbol on his armour's chest plate. The mark of a combat engineer.

"Brennan, go with him and get that centurion ready." Hendricks ordered. "We'll move on your signal."

Brennan nodded as he placed his pulse rifle on the table and went about unlatching the armour protecting his limbs. For sneaking about, wearing full armour was ill advised when it came to preventing noise or getting snagged crawling through a hole and such, unless wearing a specialised stealth suit.

"What's the signal?"Llewellyn asked.

"I think that's obvious." Hansen said, with a knowing wink.

Evidently, by 'signal', Hansen meant 'cause as much damage as you can'. A couple of explosions and the sounds of men getting blown away by heavy guns would suffice. Llewellyn could only take a deep breath as the realisation of what he was about to do was beginning to hit him.

"Okay then, lets get set up on the counter attack." Hendricks ordered.

And with that, the troopers and militia began final preparations for their surprise counter offensive.

12:28AM

As the rest of the militia and troopers went about putting their plan into action, Llewellyn and his trooper escort left the hab via the back door and navigated their way to the garage. They had a fifteen minute head-start before the rest of the group made their move and began the deception.

Llewellyn had swapped his marksman rifle for Hansen's submachine gun for the tighter quarters ahead. Brennan on the other hand had ditched his pack, helmet and the armour protecting his limbs to aid in stealth but he kept his pulse rifle strapped to his back. Travelling light, they should be able to get into position quickly and without anyone noticing them,

Hugging the shadows, the two of them cautiously made their way to the vehicle hanger where the centurion was kept. And they were hoping that the cultists had not destroyed it or, god help them, acquired it if they were going to have a chance of liberating the Caer. While they were able to simply go round most of the loitering cultists, there was one cultist who was busy relieving himself at the end of the last alley. Against the clock and no time to go around, Brennan dispatched the urinating fanatic with a swift knife to the brain stem, before dumping the body in a pile of garbage and taking the ammo bandoleer from it's former owner.

Reaching the garage and it's one conveniently open window, they climbed the stack of crates and briefly looked through, pleased that the garage was uninhabited at first glance. Looking back over their shoulders to the base's main gate, they could see that 'cultist patrol' was approaching the main gate. The three troopers had their hands bound behind their backs and were being subjected to beatings by their 'captors'. And, as predicted, they were let through with nothing so much as a quick frisking.

They were in, heading towards the tower once they were out of sight of the gatekeepers and now the two of them had their jobs to do.

Llewellyn went through the window first as Brennan kept watch. The militiaman heaved himself in before grabbing a series of pipes as an anchor point before pulling his legs through. He then slid down the pipes and into the garage. Pulling his submachine gun out, he scanned the area as he waited for Brennan to enter. Brennan tossed over his pulse rifle first and Llewellyn caught it before the trooper pulled himself in, slid down the pipes and landed on his feet next to him before handing the weapon back They then quickly moved into cover behind some crates as they assessed their surroundings.

The garage had been ransacked for anything that the army had left behind but fortunately all of the heavy vehicles and equipment had been taken. There wasn't anything of much use aside from spare parts and armour plating which the cultists used for their armoured gun trucks.

Except for one critical thing.

"There it is." Brennan said, pointing his pulse rifle at the vehicle in question at a caged bay of the garage.

The Talos Industries Centurion Armoured Platform is the name given to the militarised version of the P-6000 powerloaders that Llewellyn was used to piloting. The TI-M35X Centurion, or more simply named an Exosuit, was built from more hardy materials for maximum survivability in a combat zone with reinforced joints and servos and heavy composite armour plating that provided increased protection from small arms, energy weaponry and explosives, along with NBC protection. Armaments consisted of the standard three fingered claws like a powerloader, combined with arm-mounted and shoulder-mounted weaponry. Weaponry designed to be modular depending on their role, be it close infantry support, anti armour or if the need to wrestle a xenomorph queen emerges.

This centurion was still secured in it's wheeled mobile transport frame, it's armoured canopy opened out much like a powerloader's. As a god send, it still had it's armour plating in place but it's weaponry was detached and still on mobile racks outside the cage waiting to be mounted onto it's hard-points after it's service. It appeared to be the standard heavy support layout of heavy pulse rifle, a rocket pod and a heavy flamethrower. But the biggest piece was a 20mm flak autocannon that was still attached to it's right shoulder rig, used for anti-air duties or, in a brutally effective manner, anti-personnel.

The use of anti-air flak weaponry against infantry was still a controversial topic but none can deny its effectiveness. And many a time it was the one of the few things that can stop a full xenomorph swarm in mid charge.

They ran over to the cage gate and Brennan opened it, surprised that it was unlocked. Maybe the Xeno Extremists did not have anyone who could operate a loader after all and had just ignored it. Now they were going to regret that decision.

"Never seen one of these up close." Llewellyn said, patting one of the massive three fingered claws. "I heard these things could take on an entire hive."

"You can admire it AFTER you get in." Brennan reminded, pushing the militiaman forwards. "I'll prep the guns. You get it running."

Llewellyn rushed to the Centurion, dumping his weapon on a table as Brennan headed to the weapon rack, released it's wheel's brakes and heaved it towards the bay. The considerable weight proving to be quite a struggle until he got momentum running.

The militiaman climbed into the open armoured canopy, strapping himself in and making sure that he was secure with his legs firmly in place before he pulled his boonie hat off and donned the interface headset provided. Looking at the control sticks, he adjusted them to his specifications before activating the Centurion. The armoured canopy closed and the entire suit closed around him, sealing him within it's interior structure. Darkness permeated his vision before the display screens flared into life. Readouts blipped onto the monitors, highlighting power systems and other vital mechanics of the machine of war powering up. Then the readouts were replaced with a clear view of his surroundings and the indicators of optimal performance. Typical systems such as hull integrity, armaments and ammo counts and also the blipping mini map of the exosuit's inbuilt motion tracker.

Outside of the suit, Brennan could see the optical sensors on the canopy turn and shift like jewelled eyes as they tracked Llewellyn's head movements from within. He stopped the rack a few meters in front of the Centurion's transport frame and went about preparing each weapon.

"You okay in there?" he asked, pulling the restraints up with a loud chunky click.

" _This is something else_." Llewellyn answered in apprehension, his voice coming from the small speakers dotted around the head region of the canopy. " _Releasing locks._ "

The thick cables that secured the Centurion to it's berth popped off with sharp clicks and hissing air before hanging limply down. Llewellyn slowly lifted his feet and began to take his first steps in this machine of war. The exosuit followed his movements and each step resounded on the metal decking with a solid thump and the whining of servos. The thick power cable that was hooked up to the fuel cell was still attached to the Centurion's waist port.

"Take it slow." Brennan advised, motioning his hand towards himself. "You got more weight then you're used to with a power loader."

Llewellyn raised his right arm as he continued to walk, the exosuit following his movements fluidly with the whining of servos. He flexed his fingers and saw the three fingered claw clench and retract with his movements. But, in doing so he lost track of his footing and almost stumbled into the weapon racks. Falling over now would bring their plan of attack to a humiliating conclusion.

" _Shit!_ " Llewellyn cursed as he regained his balance.

"Don't worry, you'll get the hang of it. If you can pick up an egg without breaking it, you already passed." Brennan assured, priming the heavy pulse rifle and picking up the large pneumatic screwdriver. "Okay, now bring your right arm over here."

Llewellyn brought the Centurion's arm in line with the pulse rifle, sliding the arm into the heavy pulse rifle's rail slot and Brennan worked fast on screwing it in place and linking up the large ammunition drum onto the Centurion's back. The readouts on his screen registered the heavy pulse rifle being installed and the ammo count rose up to five hundred rounds of 15mm calibre pulse rounds and a drum of six 40mm high explosive grenades for it's launcher. Raising the arm, Llewellyn saw a cross-hair glide on the screen following the arm's movements and projecting the line of fire.

"Okay, next the flamer." Brennan continued. "Same routine."

Llewellyn brought his left arm in and they repeated the process. The flamer had an integral fuel cannister the did not need linking up to an external supply for extra protection against explosive failure. Better that only a single arm catches alight rather then the entire rig. There was enough pressurised fuel for up to five minutes of continuous use. But, controlled bursts are preferable for safety reasons and to reduce fuel wastage.

Brennan had just managed to hook up the rocket pod, containing six 80mm explosive rockets, when the garage doors were heaved open ajar and a group of ten cultists came walking in before stopping mid step from what they found. The sounds of powering machinery had finally gave the game away. And cultists realised that as, after a moment of stunned surprise, they aimed their assortment of militia and pulse weaponry at Brennan who was the only one not in an armoured exosuit.

"Look out!" Brennan shouted, diving behind the Centurion's bulk.

The cultists fired at them, the pulse rounds and bullets impacting the Centurion in bright sparks but failing to even nick it's armour. But, either by determination, zeal or plain desperation, they just continued to waste ammunition against it.

Llewellyn, switching to the one weapon that was already primed and ready, aimed the flak cannon at the cultists, his HUD cross-hairs locking on to them and fired a salvo of shells at them. The 20mm fragmentation shells proved more then deadly as the cultists were blown apart in gory explosions like a firework wrapped in meat. Their blasted and pulped remains littered everything within a four meter radius with a viscous red coat, the only intact parts being the odd limb still clutching a discharging weapon. These too stopped moving when said weapons ran dry.

Brennan peeked out of cover from the Centurion's legs and his eyes widened with an approved nod.

"I guess this is the signal." Brennan said, pulling out the Centurion's recharge cable from it's socket in a shower of sparks. "Let em have it!" he yelled tossing the sparking cable aside.

Llewellyn primed every single weapon that the Centurion had to offer and marched forward to the hanger doors with Brennan close behind him. Now was the time of righteous retribution against these traitors to humanity. Personified in this case by a pissed off Welshman in three metric tonnes of military hardware.

And now, as a certain marine once said, it was time to rock.


	7. Chapter 7

12:50AM

To say that the extremists were unprepared for such a counter attack was a critical understatement. Suffice to say, it wasn't until they had taken quite a few losses to their defence perimeter did they realise they were under attack.

The Centurion smashed through the hanger doors as the first band of cultists came to investigate the commotion, crushing the cultist who was about to heave it open into a red stain in the mud. At first, the rest of them just stood motionless in the mud and rain as metal panels rained around around them. Like they could not quite believe what they were seeing. Then the realisation dawned upon as the exosuit raised it's arms at them, arm and shoulder mounted weapons priming. The cultists made a unanimous decision of self preservation as they turned to flee.

A great plume of flame roared from the arm mounted flamethrower, engulfing the closest cultists before they could take their first panicked steps. The heavy pulse rifle blasted out a long volley of rounds that punched into them and detonated on impact, tearing them apart into bloody chunks.

Brennan was taking shots at those cultists who were trying to get behind them, firing in short bursts to conserve his magazine. There was no time to reload if they wanted to keep their momentum.

As the Centurion thundered along, servos whining with each movement, Llewellyn was mowing down anything in his way. And it was a matter of time before the cultists starting throwing heavier weaponry at him. In fact, the sound of a rumbling engine was heard coming from up ahead.

A gun truck came charging around the bend at Llewellyn, the machine gun on it's bed spitting out round after round. Brennan hit the mud as misses whizzed over him. The heavier rounds caused more of an impact on the exosuit with each hit causing him to slightly flinch as the armour plating began to get slightly dented and losing it's paintwork. Llewellyn's response was to aim the flak cannon at it's tyres, the 20mm shells tearing them and their axles to scrap. The truck rolled violently on it's sides, crushing the gunner under it's armoured bulk like a bug under a boot before Llewellyn smashed it aside with a servo assisted swipe. The truck smashed into a building and it's ruptured fuel tanks ignited in a plume of flame.

Brennan heaved himself up from the mud, shaking his pulse rifle clean and kept close to the Centurion as they made their way towards the others, who had just gotten to the inner gate before they were accosted by a group of suspicious cultists. As the cultists became preoccupied by the sudden threat of the Centurion, their weapons diverted from them, the group made their attack. The troopers broke from their deceptive bonds and their knives sang into flesh and blood began to spill, taking the nearest distracted cultists by surprise and slaughtered them into the mud. The militiaman discarded their disguises and fired at the stunned cultists, gunning them down before they could even think of resisting.

Llewellyn thundered up towards them, smashing aside fleeing cultists with servo powered fists and firing loud bursts of pulse fire at others out of reach. All the cultists were killed by the time he arrived with Brennan in tow and the group requisitioned their weaponry to supplement their arsenal.

The militiamen were impressed at the sight of this machine of war in action before them. The army troopers too were pleased with the fact that they now had a game changer after being on the receiving end for far too long.

"Enjoying yourself in there?" Hendricks asked Llewellyn as he took back his rifle from Dane.

The Centurion raised it's arms with a loud whine of servos in a gesture of enjoyment.

" _This is fucking brilliant!_ " Llewellyn beamed from inside the war machine.

"Just watch your ammo and fuel count. You won't have a chance to refuel if you get carried away." Hendricks warned.

"Remember: Short controlled bursts." Hansen reminded, checking his pulse rifle's magazine.

Everyone primed their weapons, making sure they had full magazines for the the next phase of the plan. Getting to the transmitter tower and sending the distress call. And that meant a mad dash on open ground. With no cover and only their speed and body armour to rely on.

"What about the prisoners?" Angus asked, picking up a pulse rifle from a dead cultist and slinging it on his back.

"No time to check them." Hendricks stated. "If they're smart, they'll stay quiet. The tower is our top priority."

Even as they spoke, cultists began to converge on their position. The initial shock and awe of the Centurion's grand entrance had now wore off and they were now beginning to fight back.

" Troopers, to the tower!" Hendricks shouted as bullets whizzed past.

"Militia, cover them!" Hensen ordered.

With that, the combined force of professional soldiers and citizen soldiers made their way through the mud of the open yard, not stopping for anything as cultists began to converge towards them. Llewellyn led the way, drawing most of the fire from being a larger target as bullets sparked on the Centurion's hull. Those behind him fired off shots from behind their mobile cover when they had a clear target, meant more as a deterrent then for killing though some lucky shots got through. Those cultists who had the tactical sense to retreat did so while the more zealous members decided to try and swarm them.

Llewellyn spotted a mob of cultists rushing towards them, firing their weapons and weaving left and right to avoid incoming fire and to throw off his aim. Llewellyn, opting for a more broad approach, simply aimed the heavy pulse rifle and fired a grenade when the cultists bunched up for one crucial moment. Suffice to say, the high explosive grenade succeeded in halting the charge in a spectacular plume of mud and limbs. One cultist who had been tossed towards them by the concussive wave was crushed under the Centurion's foot like an over ripe fruit.

They approached the main tower, leaving a trail of bloodied bodies in the mud and rain. The large relay dish sat on the tower's top, it's marker lights blipping in the rain. This was the final stretch, only fifty feet to go. But it was also, much to their initial shock, a kill zone.

Kurt's vest suddenly exploded at the chest with a loud bang and he tumbled into the mud, followed by a loud crack of gunfire in the air. He laid motionless in the mud as his blood started to seep forth from his wound. Angus was quick to grab him by his vest's collar and drag him into the closest piece of cover as everyone else did the same. Their momentum had been stopped by one bullet.

"Sniper!" Hendricks shouted, skidding behind a wall and adjusting his rifle's scope. "Pulse sniper!"

Glenn rushed up to Kurt as Angus got themselves behind a stack of crates, rolling him over and checking him over as Angus moved up in cover with his shotgun in hand. But it did not take much to indicate that the militiamen was no longer with them. The gaping hole in his chest, where his heart was, is evidence enough.

"Kurt's dead!"Glenn called out. "Heart shot!"

Hansen popped his head out from the low stone wall he was bunkering behind to try and locate the shooter and then quickly ducked back down when his hat got a hole blown through its marine corps logo.

"Stay in cover, this sniper's got talent!" Hansen ordered, rubbing his head from the graze the pulse round left on his scalp.

"Llewellyn, can you see the fucker?!" Angus called out as a pulse round sparked over his head, almost hitting his beret's pom pom.

Llewellyn scanned the surroundings with the Centurion's infra-red sensors. Another shot rang out and a trooper caught it in his pauldron in a flash of sparks, thankfully his armour took the damage as the round exploded, leaving him with just a grazed shoulder as he tore off the ruined plating. Llewellyn spotted the muzzle flash, locked in on the tower's outer gantry half way up the structure and he could see a cultist laying prone on the grating. A scoped high powered pulse action sniper rifle was in his hands and he was inadvertently helping Llewellyn by doing one thing.

The sniper wasn't even bothering to relocate as the next shot pinged off the Centurion's armoured canopy, leaving only a glinting nick as a parting gift.

Llewellyn highlighted the sniper in his HUD and locked on with the one weapon he had yet to try out. The rocket pod on the Centurion's shoulder pivoted in place before one tube lit up with a massive plume of flame. The rocket flared out with a smoking trail and the sniper was promptly blown to bloody chunks in a shrapnel riddled explosion. The gantry was reduced into twisted metal before collapsing altogether in a loud cacophony. Damage to the tower was minimal as the rockets were anti-personnel then anti-armour.

" _I think I got him._ " Llewellyn called out as warped girders tumbled into the mud.

But now the Centurion was out in the open with no support.

The bunker at the tower's base was then lit up by a dozen muzzle flashes as the fanatics inside unleashed everything they had on Llewellyn inside the Centurion. Sparks erupted in a flurry from the ballistic impacts and warning signs blipped on his HUD. Llewellyn aimed his heavy pulse rifle and fired at the bunker's slits, hoping to get a few lucky shots. Pulse rounds impacted the reinforced concrete in plumes of rock dust, causing some of the cultist to duck down out of instinct. One cultist was struck by a lucky hit and one of the muzzle flashes was silenced permanently.

The rest of the troopers and militia fired at the bunker in support, trying to draw the enfilading fire from the Centurion or at least suppress the bunker. Even with an inch of hardened composite armour plating for protection, it was only a matter of time before concentrated fire broke through.

Then Llewellyn saw the top entry hatch of the bunker flip up and a round pointed tip, complete the words 'HI EX' painted on it, jutted out.

" _Shit!_ " Llewellyn cursed as the head of an RPG poked from the top of the bunker, the cultist wielding it bracing himself and aimed at him. " _RPG!_ "

Hendricks aimed through his rifle's scope from behind the wall he was in cover by and fired at the cultist. But his shot was a fraction too late and the cultist fired the rocket just as his head exploded from the shot and his limp body tumbled back down into the bunker with the spent launchers clattering after him.

The rocket narrowly missed Llewellyn, arcing past the Centurion's left arm and impacting the the mud behind him, sending out a large dirty plume of charred mud and stones that doused everyone in it's vicinity with unintended camouflage.

" _Stay back, I'm flushing them out!_ " Llewellyn warned as he thundered up to the bunker.

The cultists continued to concentrate fire as it as the Centurion continued to absorb the punishment. Sparks were virtually gushing from it's armour plating as Llewellyn thundered along through the mud and rain like a mechanical ape. Warnings flared in their dozens as reading showed that the armour plating was starting to wear from the concentrated barrage. In fact one plate on the lower left leg was reduced to sixty percent efficiency.

That was one weakness of the suit. Take out it's mobility and it was a sitting duck ready to be plucked.

But, as he got into range, Llewellyn went about cleaning house.

Another cultist was hauling up the reloaded RPG through the top hatch for a second try and was promptly shot in the head by Hendricks. The dead cultist's finger pressed the trigger out of reflex and the rocket fired up into the air and out of the Caer while the back blast caused quite a stir in the bunker. Red hot gasses gushed out of the firing slits, violently knocking back those in close proximity and deafening all of them. All the confused shouting inside was distracting them from the threat they were supposed to neutralise.

Llewellyn now had his opening.

Llewellyn punched the Centurion's flamer wielding arm into one of the concrete view slits of the bunker, smashing huge chunks of cast stone and some of the dazed cultists into a mangled heap of flash and bone before firing the flamer. Jets of flame roared out of the firing slits and the gaps in the reinforced doors as the cultists inside screamed in agony.

The way was now clear. As clear as a flare in the dark night sky.

"Don't shoot!" Hansen yelled, as he leapt from cover. "Let them burn!"

The rest of his squad and the army troopers followed him after Llewellyn pulled his arm out and ceased the fire storm. They had no choice but to leave Kurt's body behind but not before grabbing his gear. If they survived, they'll give him a proper burial but for now they had a job to do.

As they approached the tower, and on cue, the side doors to the bunker swung open, the roaring flames intensified from the sudden rush of oxygen and the flaming fanatics came running out, the incendiary fuel sticking to their clothing and flesh. Some of which were burning right to the bone. The rain pouring down on then proved futile in dousing the flames. And no one shot them as the group rushed into the tower, leaving them to burn in the mud. Angus however, paused to blast one cultist in the knees with his shotgun, adding to the fanatic's agony.

Reaching the inside foyer, Llewellyn staying outside for obvious reasons of space and to provide cover, the troopers made for the stairs. The militiamen took up positions, arms laden down with scavenged weaponry from their deceased owners on their dash to the tower.

"Hold this position as long as you can!" Hendricks shouted at the militia. "We're heading for the station!"

Rushing up the stairs, the troopers made a beeline to the main comm station below the transmitter dish. Their close quarters training, better then those of citizen militia or a poorly trained conscript, helped them to dispatch the cultists that tried to fight back before they could aim their weapons down range. Several bodies came raining down as the troopers continued their warpath.

"You heard them boys." Hansen called out, grabbing a carbine from a dead cultist. "Not one of those fuckers makes it inside. This is our Rorke's Drift!"

"Welshman will not yield!" they all shouted.

The militia proceeded to barricade the doors and windows with upturned tables, chairs and any heavy piece of furniture that they could shift and gathered up every discarded firearm in reach from their dead cultist owners, loading them and placing them in easy reach for a quick weapon swap. And the bodies of said cultists, in a grim act of war and using what was available, were also used as sandbags.

Cocking their newly acquired pulse weaponry, they were ready to rock and roll. Llewellyn in the Centurion outside checked his systems and ammo reserves. And the sight of more cultists rushing towards their position marked the beginning of the decisive skirmish of the insurrection.


	8. Chapter 8

13:35am

At the town hall, things had now gotten to a point beyond a mere setback or a notable inconvenience in the cult's plan to establish a hive. And the way that Patriarch Benedict was reacting to the bad news was evidence enough. In the secure basements of the town hall, deep under the rain soaked earth, what little patience he had was rapidly crumbling as he heard yet another delay of eliminating a very persistent problem.

That problem being the squad of militia that had been evading and humiliating them at every turn.

First was wiping out their ambush at the north wall which was supposed to be a simple and easy victory. Second was wiping out a patrol with a cultist-turned-booby trap as a diversion and now they were making a stand in the army base. At the base's communications tower array instead of coming to the town hall as earlier presumed. The one place were they could send out a distress call to the army forces training at the Wolds.

And if allowed to succeed, it would put the entire insurrection in danger. Despite being more then able to take over the lightly defended caer, if the colonial army invaded in force with their superior weaponry and vehicles, the cult would be pounded into dust.

The only judicial sentence the cult would receive was death. As Federation Law decreed.

Standing at the table with the portable comm unit and plugged in to the Caer's communications network, Benedict was hearing all the chaos that was happening. The sounds of gunfire, explosions and yells from the dying riddled with ballistic trauma echoed in the stone chamber almost deafeningly. And the yells were coming from their own numbers.

The complete opposite of what he had ordered to happen.

And the call for reinforcements tipped the increasingly frustrated patriarch over the edges of tolerance.

"You need reinforcements for ONE understrength squad of militia!?" Benedict frustratingly shouted into the receiver. "They're inbred farmers for fuck's sake!"

The praetorian guards at the door flinched from the amplified volume of his shouting in this confined space. The cultist manning the console flinched under the Patriarch's ranting.

" _Patriarch, they have a centurion!_ " the cultist on the line begged. " _It's tearing us to shreds!_ "

The sound of continuous thunder from heavy weaponry rumbled over the gunshots and screaming of cultists getting blasted to chunky bits.

" _We can't get close to them!_ " the cultist shouted as another bout of screams rocked the speakers.

Benedict blinked under his mask at the mention of the war machine. He then remembered some of the stolen documents did mention a centurion undergoing a retrofitting. But, admittedly, he did not think that anyone in the colony would be able to pilot one. And that also brought up the issue of why the centurion was not destroyed while still in its berth. While it was vulnerable and more importantly inoperable.

"You mean to tell me that the exosuit we found is the one that is, at this very moment, causing us grief?" he asked before his anger resurfaced. "Why was it not scrapped before hand?!"

Again the issue of initiative problem manifested.

Another ear shattering explosion was heard over the line. The sharp crack left a ringing bout of static, causing Benedict and the cultist next to him to flinch as another was heard. The Patriarch held his ear as tinnitus set in with a loud persistent din in his head. It took a few pain riddled moments and the shaking and slapping of the head for the ringing to dim out to a tolerable level.

" _Patriarch, what do we do?!_ " the cultist pleaded.

Benedict muttered under his breath as he held the receiver to his mouth.

"'Bleed the centurion's ammunition dry and then swarm it!" Benedict ordered, not caring about the cost. "You have the numbers, use them!"

A rather Soviet idea. Use overwhelming numbers to bleed the enemy's ammunition supply and then swarm the helpless defenders. And it was also a tactic used by the xenomorphs, though the bugs tend to forgo the massive waves if it can be helped and use a more stealthy approach. That approach that worked better to the xenomorphs' strengths in silent killing.

" _Eminence?!_ " the cultist begged.

Benedict was not having any more excuses. Not from the same problem at any rate.

"I don't care if you have to level the tower to get rid of them or climb over your dead brethren's mangled remains! I want them dead within the hour!" Benedict commanded, his temper flaring into maelstrom. "They must NOT call for help!"

Another explosion from the speakers rocked the chamber, accompanied by more screams of dying cultists. And that pushed the Patriarch past the edge.

"And don't come back until it is done!" Benedict screamed.

With that, Benedict cut off the line. Quite literally as frustration peaked and he threw the receiver across the room. Right at the wall next to one of the sentries causing him to flinch. The receiver shattered into multiple pieces of plastic and spilled it's electronics into sparking wreckage as Benedict paced around the room. His fingers edged towards his cane and it's hidden dagger, grasping the pommel with the cracking of knuckles.

Those present in the room felt as if their leader was going to gut someone for stress relief. The cultist at the table was already getting read to run.

"I am surrounded by faithless cowards and liars!" he fumed as he left the room. "Undeserving of Paradise!"

The cultists in the room looked to each other with the same apprehension in their eyes behind their masks as they breathed a tense sigh of relief. As with most cults led by a religious zealot, they had more to fear from their own leaders then the enemy. Though perhaps they had rather be the ones out there fighting in the rain and mud then being on the receiving end of the Patriarch's ranting.

Benedict walked the long stone lined corridors that ran underneath the town hall, knocking over the odd bench in frustration and pausing when he reached one of the storage rooms used for housing the eggs. Many battered crates filled the room, numbering just over three dozen. Less then what he had hoped for but given the manner that they arrived, he was not ungrateful. He looked at the precious cargo for a few seconds, many thoughts rushing through his mind. Thoughts of a carefully laid plan, months in the making that had to succeed. It had to succeed. Failure meant a sure death at the hands of Federation Law.

"Paradise will come." he reminded himself before walking on. "Paradise WILL come!"

Leaving the storage room, he made his way back upstairs. But no sooner did he reach the top of the flight of stone steps that he was greeted by a colonist under armed guard. A scowl appeared on his masked face.

It was the Weyland-Yutani representative, her wrists bound crudely together with tape as a precaution. And from the vexed frown on her face, she looked like she was coerced into this arrangement. Especially when she felt the muzzle of a pulse rifle n the small of her back.

"I have a request to make." she formally requested the moment he stopped in front of her.

The Patriarch glared at her behind his mask. Despite evoking a convincing impression of a xenomorph studying it's prey, the Rep was undeterred. Rather she just frowned at him even more. And Benedict relented as he rubbed his mask where his eyes was.

"What imbecile put you in charge?" Benedict asked in exasperation.

And he got his answer when the Rep rolled her eyes. The answer was so obvious that Benedict of all people should have known it. He was the main instigator after all.

"You did." the Rep dryly reminded. "When you hived the administrator and lobotomised the lieutenant and marshal. Being the only ranking official left, your 'congregation' is now looking to me."

That was true. Considering what he did to assume control, Benedict remembered that even a representative from the Company held some sway over the colony. After all, it is thanks to Weyland-Yutani and the terraformers they created that humanity was able to colonise other worlds in the first place.

Weyland's Promise, the first colony on Mars and the oldest colony in humanity's history as an emergent space faring race is testament to that. What's more, The Company had a right to check on it's investments.

Benedict waved his cane towards the nearest open room which happened to be the former mayor's office. Walking in, he led the Rep inside with the guard taking position by the door. He then ushered her into the chair that was in front of the mayor's desk roughly with his cane on her shoulder. The Rep half slumped in the chair before Benedict released her.

"Comfy." She said with feigned praise as the patriarch walked behind the mayor's desk.

Benedict sat down on the mayoral chair, the gilded and leather bound seat creaking under his weight and dumping his cane loudly on the desk. Leaning back into his commandeered throne, the patriarch began to rap his fingers on the hardwood surface. The Rep merely sat in her seat and stared at him. Both participants were mentally gauging the other in a typical lead up to a business dealing or an interrogation.

Benedict began this little impromptu meeting with a exasperated sigh.

"What do you want?" he questioned before leaning forward with malice. "And you better not be wasting my time."

The Rep sat up straight as she began her request in the formal corporate manner.

"Several things." She tersely answered. "Firstly, from your shouting, I presume that your schedule have hit a snag. The sounds of your raving and the echoing explosions and gunfire outside was a bit revealing."

Benedict leaned back into the chair as the mention of his outburst. It would seem that his ranting had echoed rather notably down the corridors more then he had liked. And the sounds of battle would no doubt have been carried over the wind and rain. Especially from the exosuit's heavier weaponry.

"Nothing but a minor setback." he sternly clarified. "One that will be rectified within the hour."

The Rep tilted her head at him. She was unconvinced. Considering that she was a member of the most powerful mega-corporation in history, being able to recognise body language was a must-have skill. She could tell that he was still furious at this 'minor setback'.

"So I see." she noted. "But at any rate, we make do with what we have." she then brought up the issues that have occurred. "If you prefer your 'holy ground' defaced, I suggest you start taking us in groups to the bathroom." the Rep requested. "One of us was caught trying to take a shit in another room. Caused a bit of commotion up here while you were downstairs ranting."

Benedict tilted his head in thought before he made the connection. The image of a holy shrine to his messiahs caked in human defecate was unappealing. A blasphemous proposition.

"Ah yes, there is that." he admitted. "Thank you for bringing it to my attention."

The Rep sat back in her seat as she brought up another issue. One which was more pertinent to the current situation.

"How long do you intend to keep this up?" she asked, no doubt referring to the insurrectionist uprising.

Benedict narrowed his eye behind his mask at that question.

"As long as it takes to bring Paradise." he answered curtly and to the point.

The Rep was unconvinced by that answer

"Paradise?" she said, half-scornfully. "I have read of many a... visionary that tried to create paradise. Most of the time they all failed. Brought down by the very thing they created."

Benedict leaned forward towards her, resting his elbows on the desk.

"And your point being?" Benedict asked.

The rep leaned forward in her chair towards him. The guard aimed his pulse rifle at her, thinking she was about to try something stupid. Benedict waved his hand at the guard and the cultist lowered his weapon.

"Doesn't it strike you as part of a vicious cycle?"the Rep reasoned. "Given your... occupation, are you familiar with Spears' Folly?"

The manner in which Benedict leaned back in his chair betrayed his reluctant knowledge of that fiasco.

Spears' Folly is a cautionary tale of trying to control Xenomorphs, which sadly is often ignored by the ambitious and the power mad. During the early years of the Infestation of Earth, an ambitious, and as historians would later declare insane, general of the USCMC named Thomas Spears headed a bio-weapons program with the ultimate goal of controlling xenomorphs. By manipulating their behaviour through mental conditioning and other means, including the usage of fire, Spears believed that they were the key in liberating Earth from the hives that infested her. However, he had no clue of the telepathic hive mind that joined the xenomorphs together. By the time he realised his mistake, when he had actually landed on Earth with his 'army', his fate was already sealed. The xenomorphs were merely pretending to cooperate, using the overconfident general as their ticket to Earth, and Spears was personally dispatched by the queen he had raised.

That fiasco cost humanity dearly, losing much in materials and manpower when his facility was predictably overrun.

But to Benedict and the Xenomorph Cult, this cautionary tale was tantamount to blasphemy. And, to many religions, there is only one punishment for such heresy.

"He failed because he was a heretic who refused God's message." Benedict reminded. "He tried to use our messiahs for his own ends and he was rightly punished for doing so."

"And the Xenomorphs are better?" The Rep countered. "Considering how they spread, humans are nothing more then a one use asset to them. Disposable and in many cases inefficient. Those who cannot bear their parasitic offspring anyway."

"All have their part to play in the greater scheme of things." Benedict assured reaching for his cane and tapping it in his empty hand like a teacher with a disciplinary cane. "We all must do our part."

"And what is your part?" the Rep questioned. "Evidently, it's not getting your hands dirty like your followers."

Another truth.

Benedict, his masked feature's remaining neutral, pulled on the pommel of his cane, revealing an inch of blade from within. He looked at the exposed blade, tilting it in hand and watching it catch the room's lights overhead. This action had a subtle implication of sacrificial intentions.

"To guide the worthy to paradise." he said, curtly. 'And to eliminate anything that stands in the way."

He then stood up from his seat, his hand still on his dagger and fingers flexing in thought. The Rep only fixed him with her eyes. Almost like she was goading him to slit her throat now and be done with it. Assuringly, choking to death on her own blood would be a quicker death then waiting for the chestburster to emerge from behind her sternum.

"This meeting is over." Benedict decided, sheathing his dagger once more with a click. "Let your people know that I have granted their request for relief. And I would advise against any foolish attempts to escape." he then leaned towards her, doing his xenomorph impersonation again. "Despite my plans for you lot, my guards are under orders to bring you back. Dead or alive. If you will not serve as a bearer, then you will serve as nourishment for the progeny."

"I will be sure to tell them that." the Rep assured, inwardly resentful of her coming fate.

Benedict tapped his cane on the desk and the guard came forward. The Rep felt a rough hand on her shoulder and she was ushered out the door. The Patriarch watched from his seat as she was roughly pushed ahead before she let out a smart comment about the cult's lack of finesse. She added that Weyland-Yutani regulations would never allow this level of sloppiness which provoked another shove from the irritated guard.

Benedict adjusted his mask as he busied himself with emerging thoughts.

The mention of Spears' Folly had opened up an old wound for the Patriarch. A familial one at that. It was the same manner of fate that promoted him to the rank of Patriarch. His former patriarch, whose ambition led to his demise, made the same mistake as Spears. There was no controlling God's messiahs on they were set loose. But his former leader was zealous enough to actually be in the way during that insurrection and was cut down by the swarm. Benedict and some other followers was wise to have fled before OSIRIS came snooping around.

Leadership and zeal was a difficult combination to master.

That was over forty years ago and he was lucky to have gotten away with it, though OSIRIS continued to operate against the main cult. Founding his own splinter cult on this backwater planet, far from the prying eyes of OSIRIS and waiting for the right moment for which to bring Paradise. Getting the message from the main cult group that a transport laden with eggs was coming for them filled him with purpose. A purpose that his now advanced age craved. A chance to be there when his purpose was fulfilled. When Paradise finally comes.

But now, the Rep's earlier mention of Spear's Folly was causing the unpleasant seeds of doubt to emerge.

The doubt that Human Nature, typically the self-serving kind, would always come first. And Benedict had sworn that day that he would never put himself above his messiahs. He then concluded that the corporate lackey was no doubt playing mind games on him, trying to make him lose focus on what must be done.

The patriarch then quietly decided that she should be the first to be offered.

Another explosion was heard echoing across the Caer, snapping Benedict from his thoughts. The Patriarch walked over to the window, seeing the dying glow of another explosion in the distance. If he could blot out the rain pelting the glass, he thought he could make out the sounds of gunfire. And the patriarch prayed that this battle would end quickly.

The insurrection was far from over.


	9. Chapter 9

13:40AM

By the time that the army troopers got to the top level, fighting for every single step, the sounds of combat below was getting more intense. Gunfire was becoming more consistent when before it was sporadic bursts. That meant the cultists were stepping up their attacks with increasing vigour. But the militiamen were heroically holding their positions.

For the moment.

The Centurion proved to be their greatest advantage in combating the superior numbers of the cultists. But it was only a matter time before they ran out of ammunition. And a certain fact is that the Centurion, as hard as Llewellyn was pushing it, would sooner run out of fuel then ammunition.

Behind the troopers, littering the stairways like discarded trash, were the dead cultist garrison. Again, due to the diversion in the habs, were a bare minimum of eight including the cultists that had dropped at the base of the tower. And the troopers reckoned that any cultists left would be bunkering up in the comms station for a last stand.

And they knew that it would be there where the fighting would be fiercest. Animals were always at their most dangerous when pressed into a corner. And they had to hope that the cultists did not have the initiative to destroy the comms equipment.

If that had already happened, then the gambit was doomed from the start.

Coming up to the door at the top of the stairs, the army troopers could see that it had been sealed and locked from the inside. That was of hardly any concern as the squad loaded their grenade launchers with door breaching slugs. Or in this case, hardened tungsten slugs normally used for punching through a praetorian xenomorph's carapace. But at close range, they could punch through a reinforced security door as a means of bypassing the lock by literally blowing out it's locks. Cocking their weapons, the troopers aimed blasted through the locks with loud metallic cracks and showers of sparks.

Hendricks kicked the heavy door open and ducked as his troopers piled through. Gunfire erupted as the troopers engaged the few cultists that had hunkered down in the comms room. And those present were pitifully armed with pistols which showed just how unprepared they were for a counter attack. And the troopers spared no one as the last cultist fell to the ground, riddled with holes to his upper chest

But the troopers did not get out of it unscathed. Brennan, who had ditched most of his armour for the infiltration, had copped a lucky round to his left outer thigh, leaving him with a notable limp. Luckily for him, the bullet missed his femer. And Hendricks had his helmet blown off from a lucky hit by a snub nosed shotgun. His face had fresh scratches from pellets that had struck him but his visor prevented him from being blinded. And the other troopers suffered more debilitating damage to their amour which they briskly tore off.

"Clear." A trooper called out.

And, to their relief, the comms equipment was still intact. Aside from getting scratched by ricocheting rounds, everything was still operational. So that was another silver lining.

Rushing up to the windows, Hendricks caught a glimpse of the fighting that was raging below them as he picked out shot pellets from his face.

All around the tower, there were dead and dying cultists littering the mud highlighted by red blotches. Flashes of gunfire could be seen below as the cultists traded fire with the militiamen downstairs, some rushing between cover either to get closer or to drag wounded comrades to cover. Another wave of cultists attempting to storm the barricades was thwarted when the Centurion came thundering into view, heavy pulse rifle spewing body-rendering death and the flamer incinerating any that survived. One cultist was even sent flying with a vicious backhanded swipe, arcing through the air before being pulverised upon hitting a solid wall likea bug on a windscreen.

Not bad for a bunch of farmers.

"The militia are holding their own." he praised. "But we'll need backup."

Hendricks ran up to the main console and punched in an access code into the main console. The screen blipped into life and the trooper began to send out a distress call to all military frequencies. The distress call itself was called ENWIN, which stood for: Enemy Within.

It was simple and to the point when it came to Xenomorph Extremists.

Hitting the transmit button, a loud whirring of gears was heard above as the dish pivoted into position with the whining of servos. The console then highlighted a diagram of the dish sending out the signal, sending out wavelengths at five second intervals. And to add more atmosphere and insult to the attackers, he patched into the base's radio waves and turned up the volume as Men of Harlech played over the loudspeakers.

Hopefully, this would give those at the main base a bit of space and hopefully they could send a relief force. If anything, it'll mean two fronts have been established for the cultists to deal with. Every cultist that came after them is one less that the survivors at the base would have to fight through.

"Signal sent." Hendricks said, picking up his rifle. " Get to the windows and support them!"

With that, the troopers smashed out the windows and started to fire at the cultists on top of the habs surrounding the tower and relieving the pressure on the militia. And it worked as, after gunning down nearly half dozen in number, the cultists on the roofs began to return fire. Shots were impacting the window frames in sparks and smashing what glass wasn't broken. But having the high ground was the deciding factor as the cultists couldn't get a clear shot at the troopers but the troopers had a perfect view all around the tower.

Eventually, with their casualties mounting, the cultists resorted to hiding in cover in order to deal with this new threat. And that meant less fire was directed towards the militia on the ground floor. And that was what they needed as the cultists began to mass for another push.

13:50am

In the tower's foyer, the militia were continuing to hold the line. From their positions around the tower, they continued to exchange fire with the cultists. Llewellyn was still stomping about outside in the heavy rain, keeping their immediate perimeter clear of hostiles that tried to sneak through. Bullets and pulse rounds sparked against the hardened structure of the tower as the cultists vaulted from cover and rushed across open ground.

And as before Llewellyn rushed out to meet them, causing the zealous charge to degenerate into a panicked retreat. For those lucky enough not to be blasted to bits or pulverised by a servo-assisted punch.

But every now and again, a lone cultist managed to sneak in and tried to knife the nearest militiaman. But Hansen proved too aware for assassinations to succeed and he would gun them down before they even cleared the window. He rightly said they held nothing to a xenomorph, in the fact you would not even know they were there until they were right on top of you. And by then it was too late to do anything other then pray for a quick death instead of being taken alive.

The now recent supporting fire from the troopers up the tower was also helping in keeping the cultists on the hab roofs distracted. Even so, it was only helping so much. There were simply too many targets to handle.

A yell was heard as Glenn fell onto his back, clutching his hand which was nearly spurting blood. The LSW he was manning tumbled down next to him, almost landing on his mangled hand.

"Fuck, another finger!" Glenn shouted, clutching his increasingly amputated hand.

Now he was missing his entire little finger after a lucky shot tore it off while he was firing back. The appendage itself was blown to pieces from the metacarpal bone, preventing any notion of reattachment.

"Fight through the pain!" Hansen ordered, cocking his pulse rifle's grenade launcher.

Popping up over the windowsill, he fired into a knot of cultists that were hiding behind a dumpster. The refuse bin exploded in a large fireball engulfing the cultists in a shower of flame and twisted metal. And flurry of shots from above gunned down any cultists show weathered the explosion.

Glenn quickly bound up his stump with a piece of cloth, gritting his teeth as jolts of pains shot up his arm before hefting his LSW over the windowsill and firing a long continuous burst at a bunch of cultists rushing his position, taking advantage of his brief incapacitation. With no spare barrels, he had to fire carefully to avoid warping the barrel that was even now starting to glow hot. Fortunately, the rain that was now hammering them was cooling the barrel as steam hissed off the hot metal. The cultists, whose confidence of a clean charge was now soiled, were gunned down before they could hit the mud.

"Watch it, they're setting up a !" Dane warned, pointing a finger outside as the rumble of a truck engine was heard over the gunfire.

Another gun truck came rumbling up the mud and the cultists on the flatbed were loading a belt of ammunition in the breech of the HMG. The truck flashed it's headlamps on full beam and the gunner pulled the cocking handle with a loud click. The shooting gallery had been designated.

"Get down!" Hansen shouted.

The gunner fired off a long burst from the at the tower foyer, the larger rounds punching into the structure and leaving massive craters in the concrete and prefab walls in sparks and puffs of dust. The militiamen inside the foyer hugged the ground as bullets whizzed overhead smashing up the foyer's interior. The cultists took this chance to swarm the tower, vaulting over cover and running forth with daggers out. Llewellyn, seeing the threat that the truck was poising to his squad, aimed the exosuit's rocket pod at the truck and fired his last rocket at it. The rocket soared towards the vehicle and the cultists on the truck scrambled to get off as the rocket impacted the cab. The truck exploded into flames and the cultists in the cab were shredded while the ones on the bed were thrown off by the shockwave, hitting the mud in a tangle of twisted limbs.

And the advancing cultists, having lost their covering fire, faltered in their charge as the militia raised their weapons. The militiamen quickly resumed fire against the cultists running towards them, gunning them down before they could get to cover. But there was no telling when the cultists will bring more heavy ordinance to the fray.

Angus, his shotgun slung on his back, was firing Llewellyn's rifle. Although with lesser skill as some of his shots were going wide off their intended targets. He eventually removed the scope and resorted to it's iron sights, being more accustomed to it and found his shots hitting more. So much so, he started shouting various insults in Gaelic and even flashed the cultists with a pull of his kilt. That was of course answered by a hail of bullets and a scolding from Hansen as the scotsman ducked into cover.

"Angus, stop that!" Hansen shouted, tossing an empty magazine aside for a fresh one.

"What? They missed!" Angus shouted back in his defence.

Then, as if to prove him wrong, the pom pom on his beret exploded in a puff of cotton. Angus crouched lower in response, patting his head and expecting to find a hole in his skull. He chuckled nervously when he found none.

He decided to stop any more taunting before more 'balls' were shot off.

Outside, under constant fire, Llewellyn was feeling the strain as the Centurion was starting to succumb to the damage it had been soaking. Each time he tackled a extremist charge, it made him a sitting duck for any cultist with the tactical know-how to concentrate fire at him. As such, the armour plating was on the brink of failure. And he was certain that some bullets had indeed penetrated, though by sheer luck he had avoided injury.

Not having anyone in close proximity to provide support was showing the limitations of an individual exosuit. They worked best as part of a group with each suit covering each other.

Firing the heavy pulse rifle, whose barrel was now glowing red hot, steaming and cracking in the rain, he managed to gun down another seven cultists before the weapon gave off a long drone. Checking the HUD, he saw that the ammunition drum was now dry. The flak autocannon was down to ten shells, all the rockets were used and the flamer was down to to five seconds of fuel. The armour readouts were now in the red and the exosuit's power cell, pushed beyond the limit in such a short amount of time, was almost depleted.

" _Running on fumes here!_ " he radioed to his squad. " _Armour's gone to shit! And ammo's dry!_ "

That was the signal to begin their withdrawal to the only refuge left. They had given as much time as they could give and now, having virtually lost their one advantage, they had to fall back.

"Llewellyn, disengage!" Hansen ordered. "We're moving up the tower!"

The loader pilot then had a brainwave. An idea to buy them some precious seconds for escape.

" _Barricading the door!_ " he shouted, forcing the Centurion into one last dash towards the tower.

Firing off the last flak rounds in the drum and blasting another six cultists into meaty chunks, the exosuit thundered along the mud, damaged armour plating rattling loudly and grinding servos sparking, before Llewellyn crouched into a skidding ball. Some cultists, having scaled the wrecked and smouldering truck, fired at Llewellyn with the charred but still functional . An alarm klaxon sounded in the canopy as the armoured back failed and the high calibre bullets were shredding up the internal workings. Servos were being battered and power lines were getting severed. But it was too late to stop the Centurion's momentum.

The war machine crashed into the door, partially caving in the door frame and the immediate wall with a loud cracking creak of strained metal. Angus almost jumped out of his kilt as the Centurion suddenly appeared next to him. Cursing in Gaelic, he crawled off towards the stairs.

The Centurion's canopy opened up, though more accurately fell apart, and Llewellyn swiftly disengaged from the cockpit.

"Door locked!" he shouted, hopping out of the lodged exosuit as the war machine powered down with a loud electronic whine.

"Militia, fall back!" Hansen shouted. "Llewellyn, Dane, cover us!"

Llewellyn picked up a carbine that had been dumped next to the door and starting firing out the window. But he only got a dozen rounds from it before the bolt snapped shut. Cursing, he tossed the spent weapon aside and went for his pistol. The rest of the squad began to make their way to the stairs. Faced with this lack of resistance, the cultists began to advance forwards firing wild;y at the tower foyer.

"Keep your heads down!" Hansen yelled as bullets whizzed overhead.

Glenn at that point fell backwards, yelling and clutching his chest as the sounds of pulse rounds detonating was heard. Dane rushed up to him, seeing that his comrade's armoured vest had done it's job in protecting him from the worst of the explosive rounds due to it's ablative nature. But now the armoured vest was a tangled and ragged mess of metal and ballistic fibres as the medic tore it off the wounded militiaman.

At most, Glenn suffered some bad lacerations and minor burns to his chest and there was some ragged shards of titanium alloy lodged in his jacket's inner layers and skin. A luckier break then what Kurt had.

"The vests do work!" Glenn coughed sardonically.

"That idiot obviously used impact-fuse rounds." Hansen said, changing his pulse rifle's magazine.

If the rounds had been set to detonate after penetrating, the militiamen would have ended up resembling something of a smashed open pumpkin just like Kurt.

"We're running low on ammo!" Angus shouted, dumping the marksmen rifle and slapping his last magazine into his shotgun.

At that moment, the sound of gunfire outside ceased and rapid footsteps were heard coming from the stairs and a trooper came running down to them, skidding at the bottom of the flight.

"Militia, get up the tower!" the trooper shouted to them before running back up. "They're all coming for us!"

A loud war cry coming from the cultists outside was heard as all the cultists on the ground left cover and sprinted towards the tower. It looked like all of the cultists were now gambling everything on one mass charge. Retrospectively, it invoked the image of a Japanese banzai charge during World War Two. And the Militia had no chance of fending them off if they stayed downstairs with so many points of entry. At least the stairs would provide a bottleneck to slow the horde down.

And it was at this point that those cultists wearing their bodysuits unfurled their dorsal spines. In the same manner as the Winged Hussars of Poland, this was to add intimidation to the charge.

"Squad, fall back up the stairs!" Hansen shouted, grabbing Dane and pushing him to the stairwell.

Angus hauled a badly bleeding Glenn on his shoulders, blood dripping down his vest as Llewellyn brought up the rear, tossing the loader pilot his shotgun.

"Those are slugs in the breech." he shouted to Llewellyn as he reached the stairs. "Nail the bastards!"

Llewellyn cocked the shotgun as he took up rearguard duty. Keeping the weapon aimed at the windows he could target, he kept a brisk pace with the others. The cultists outside began to close in on the tower, spurred on by the lack of resistance. Passing their dead and dying comrades in the mud, they rushed forward to the tower foyer. Right now, they were expecting easy pickings from militia on the run.

"We're coming up!" Hansen shouted up as he thundered up the steps. "Give us some cover!"

Hendricks emerged from the comm station's door, slamming in a fresh magazine for his rifle and cocking the charging handle. Undoubtedly, this was his last magazine. Aiming his rifle down and peering through the scope, he covered the militia's ascent.

At this point, the first cultists came up to the windows, pushing the hastily constructed barricades aside and began to climb inside. Llewellyn fired at the first cultist to hop through, masked and his dorsal spines jutting menacingly as almost a dead ringer for a xenomorph, nailing him in the chest and blasting him back out the window. The Centurion was working in funnelling the cultists to the windows and impeding their progress as they had to enter one at a time through the windows. Until a loud explosion rocked the tower and the Centurion was blasted apart by an RPG and unintentionally peppering the cultists inside with pulverised machinery. And the cultists outside went about pushing the wreck out from the door.

It was a tactical error on the cultist's part for wasting it on an already neutralised threat. But in their eagerness to finally end this fight, they either forgot or did not care.

Llewellyn continued to fire at the cultists, the slugs knocking back any cultist off their feet as they tried to rush him. Dane also fired his pistol at them from further up the stairs, the suppressive fire working in keeping the fanatics at bay an allowing Llewellyn time to catch up. Those cultists that rushed at them during these lulls were promptly gunned down by a quick shot from Hendricks. And their bodies provided an improvised speed bump that slowed the cultists down until they shoved their dead or dying comrades over the edge.

Using this pattern of covering fire, the militia was able to get a considerable distance away from the cultists until they reached the station. Hansen stopped by the railing to fire his pulse rifle down range, unleashing a hailstorm of explosive rounds. Emptying the whole magazine, he threw the pulse rifle down the stairs and was rewarded with a yelp as the weapon struck a cultist in the face. Angus hauled Glenn into the comms station, dripping blood behind them as Dane followed suit. Llewellyn arrived last just as Hendricks ran out of ammunition.

"I'm out!" Hendricks shouted, as the bolt of his rifle snapped open.

Llewellyn fired one final shot from the shotgun, sending the hit cultist screaming over the bannisters, before he too ran out of shells. With that, they both rushed into the comms station and grabbed the door to slam it shut.

"Shut the door!" Angus shouted, hefting Glenn further in the station.

They managed to get the door shut just as the first cultists reared their heads over the steps, daggers out and thirsting for blood. Inside the comms station, the troopers and militiamen hurriedly did what they could to barricade the door. But not having any heavy machinery or furniture that could be pushed against the door, they settled on making a group effort of pushing at the door while the cultists outside tried to push their way in. The fact that the army troopers had blown the locks out was now playing against them.

The cultists banged against the door trying to force their way in, yelling obscene threats and shouting how fucked the heathens would be when they break in.

Survival for the militia and troopers now depended on a reverse tug-of-war as one side pushed for survival and the other pushed for mass murder.

"Hold the fucking door!" Hendricks shouted, putting his back into it. "Hold it!"

Glenn was dumped by the security monitors, looking considerably more worse for wear as Dane went about trying to patch him up as best he could. Opting not to rip out the shrapnel, the medic just sprayed antiseptic and wrapped bandages and gauze padding on him to prevent any more damage. On the monitor, they could see a whole procession of cultists, numbering in the dozens, massing outside the door and snaking down the stairs right down to the ground floor.

Hansen drew his knife when the door was pushed open an inch as the cultists gained some leverage. The marine veteran was quick thrust his knife through the gap and was rewarded with a yelp as the nearest cultist was stabbed through the arm. The door was then promptly slammed shut as everyone took advantage of the lack of resistance. But it did not take long before the shoving resumed.

And it was only a matter of time before they broke through. The militia were exhausted holding their positions and they had no more ammunition for their weapons. The army troopers were in slightly better condition but they too were out of ammo. The moment the cultists broke in, they would be torn apart in an orgy of blood.

And the shoving at the door was now getting more forceful and the gap was getting bigger. Hansen would jab out with his knife and he was answered in kind as curved blades jabbed in, trying to knife them. The militia sergeant fenced them off, earning himself a slash across his exposed biceps before he stabbed a cultist through the hand.

"This is it." Dane said, resignation in his voice. "It's been fun while it lasted."

Looking up at the monitors, even while the cultists were at the door, Glenn noticed something that was going on outside via the exterior cameras.

"Who's that?" Glenn coughed, pointing at a monitor.

Dane looked up in time to see one of the cultists outside being grappled around the neck by an unknown assailant and receiving a knife to the chest. On the other monitors, there were more cultists being dispatched, either by knives to the heart or snapping necks, with the efficiency of a well drilled squad. These were not militia nor even army personnel from the base making a surprise attack.

Attacking the cultist's flanks were marines in black uniforms and armour, equipped with bullpup pulse rifles and other specialised weaponry . The most distinctive feature was the sight of swords, each one unique to their owner, sheathed on their backs. On their armour were two symbols. The first was that of a winged sun with a crown on the left pauldron and the second was a pyramid in a circle with a pillar in the centre with the Earth on it's plinth on the chestplate below the collar.

These were Spec Ops marines.

OSIRIS was here.

And one of the marines, standing on the top of the hab closest to the tower, was brandishing a very large double headed axe instead of a sword, decorated in the centre of the head with an up pointed arrow and a chevron in the middle. A dead cultist was draped over the edge, a large ragged tear from it's shoulder to ribs spewing blood in the mud below. A brief flash of lightning illuminated the marine and making the giant axe shine in the darkness.

And the marine was looking at the tower before pointing with his axe. Like he was asking for permission to engage. And he got his order.

" _Reaper. Fuck them up!_ " the Spec Ops captain, Polish by his accent, shouted over the station's comms.

The marine, without hesitation or concern for the height he was at, jumped down from the hab, landing deftly on his boots with a muddy splash before running right at the cultists inside the tower with his axe held high over his head. Running with a speed that defied understanding, almost in a blur, the marine rushed towards the besieged tower.

Via the close circuit cameras monitors, the militia and army troopers watching witnessed the carnage that was about to unfold.

The marine fluidly dived through the window, past the wrecked Centurion and rolled to his feet without breaking his momentum as he held his axe up. Getting the jump on the cultists at the foot of the stairs, he brought the axe down hard into the first cultist's head with a loud roar and, with the sound of splitting flesh and bone filling the air, the cultist was bisected cleanly between the eyes, head to groin in a tsunami of blood. And before the cultists could respond, or more accurately flee, the marine swung his axe upwards and caught a cultist below the ribcage. The cultist had his entire chest sliced through in a spurt of blood and shards of bone, his armoured vest providing no protection at all. The marine was drenched with gore across his masked face but that did little to make him even blink.

If anything, it seemed to have an intoxicating effect as the marine began to build up momentum with his swings. And the number of bodies, and pieces of bodies, began to pile up behind him as he thundered up the steps swinging his axe and finding a mark every time with a silenced scream and an eruption of gore.

Now the cultists knew they had been flanked. And by the one person that they feared most. A demon that had been mentioned in many a sermon in this splinter cult and in many others.

"The Butcher!" a cultist screamed from the other side of the door. "It's the fucking Butcher!"

And 'Butcher' was putting it lightly. More accurately, this marine was like an industrial buzz saw on legs. And they were the wood to saw through.

The cultists, taken by surprise, were standing no chance against this unstoppable force in these tight quarters where there was no room to run. From this berserker that had been unleashed against them. The marine butchered his way up the stairs, not slowing for anything and his axe swinging in the air with the singing of metal. And cultists dropping like flies from the stairs with horrendous wounds inflicted upon them. Limbs severed, bodies cut in twain and all the while the blood flowed like a crimson waterfall off the steps.

The sudden lack of pushing against the door was the militia's chance to seal it. Hansen jabbed out with his knife, provoking another yelp before swiftly withdrawing. Shoving at it as one, the militiamen and troopers the door slammed shut and Hansen improvised a new lock by jamming his bloody knife into the slot and twisting its guard into the rim. It worked as the door did not swing open as they stood back.

Seeing the carnage on the monitor, they could see that the marine was now almost at their position. In fact, they saw just in time a cultist take the axe right through his chest before being wrenched off his feet and flung into the wall behind the marine, spraying blood onto the camera lens and painting everything red as the lifeless body tumbled down the stairs. The back swing then sliced through a cultist's masked head, taking off everything from the jaw up with a loud terminal gargle from the deceased neck hole.

Several times, the defending cultists tried to block the marine's axe with their weapons and, every time with the resistance of a stick of butter, the axe simply carved through them and their desperate wielders in bright flashes of sparks and arcs of blood and bodily fluids. The bisected remains of the weaponry glowed hot at the points of contact.

The cultists at the top of the stairs had now decided that this marine was more of an issue then the militia bunkering in the comms station. Especially when he was no more then five bodies away from them. And a quick frantic squabble ended up with them aiming their weaponry, militia-grade as all the pulse weaponry wielding cultists had already been massacred, down the stairs.

A hail of bullets was surely the only thing that this maniac could not evade.

The marine, faced with this ballistic obstacle with the sound of cocking bolts, adapted quickly with the one thing that was in abundance at his current position.

Bodies. Lot and lots of bodies.

The marine buried his axe into the chest of the last cultist straggler and used his still warm and armoured body as a shield, absorbing the incoming fire as he sprinted the last stretch of stairs. The cultists ended up emptying their entire magazines to little effect as the riddled corpse was held aloft by the marine, blood pouring down from it's ludicrous amount of exit holes onto his helmet and armour.

And that's when they saw his eyes behind the marine's visor. Red glowing eyes.

Like a demon that just clawed it's way from the very mouth of Hell.

That was when all aspect of resistance died. When realisation dawned on them that there was no way out. Aside from a horrible death as their passage to the great beyond.

The cultists, their thoughts of murder now replaced with self preservation, desperately tried to break down the door to escape and the militia and troopers inside rushed back to hold the door shut, it's knife lock rattling loudly as both sides pushed. They had no intention of being cut to shreds with the cultists who earlier was trying to gut them. The banging on the door became even more frantic and the screams almost deafening as their deaths came closer with a loud inhuman roar.

Then the sound of slicing flesh and bone was heard, along with the thudding of dead bodies as the screams were abruptly silenced one by one. Blood began to seep from under the door and the last cultist was butchered right against the door, the axe blade actually punching through the hardened steel like it was flimsy tin. Blood seeped through the rupture and dripping from the crimson stained blade. That was enough for everyone at the door to quickly back off briskly with exclamations of fright.

Llewellyn especially as the axe came an inch from biting into his head.

The axe blade was wrenched from the hole with a loud crunch and the body it had impaled slid to the ground. The sound of bodies being dumped over the edge and the faint squelching thuds that followed could be heard. The troopers and militia held their breaths, eyes locked at the door as the bent knife dropped from the lock and the door began to swing open.

The door slowly swung open with a long suspenseful creak and the blood drenched axe dripping with gore and shards of bone waved into view. Those who still had weaponry aimed at the door, despite the lack of ammunition, their hands quivering at the prospect of being the next lambs for the slaughter.

The door swung completely open and they got their first look at their saviour or executioner. This marine, covered head to toe in crimson streaks, was six feet tall and clad in spec ops armour with a shining desert eagle handgun in a chest holster. Two smaller axes were holstered on his thighs through loops on his belt. The most striking features on him however were his ruby red eyes and his long near waist length jet black hair draping down like a mane of spikes. On his armour's right pauldron was a symbol comprising of a winged sword, and the words: Who Dares Wins, and on the left was the winged sun insignia. On his helmet was his callsign: Reaper, along with a stylised effigy of a scythe and hourglass.

The symbols of the personification of Death: The Grim Reaper.

The marine cocked his head at the huddled militia and troopers at the other end of the station. They recoiled back like he was about to gut them next. But that was when the marine slid his balaclava down and spoke.

"You guys alright?" the marine asked, British by his accent and with a concerned tone. "Is anyone wounded?"

This was a stark contrast from the blood drunk psychopath that had been earlier been cleaving through cultists like a lawnmower to grass. And the marine noticed that everyone was just staring at him.

"I'm drenched aren't I?" he asked, rubbing his hands over his blood soaked armour and flicking his hand of red webs. "Christ, this is a dirty job." he muttered, wiping his eyes.

This show of humanity was enough for everyone to slowly unwind from their pent up anticipation. They lowered their empty sidearms and sighed loudly. Looks like they weren't going to die at the hands of a berserker marine after all.

"You're a Specs Ops marine?" Hendricks questioned, holstering his pistol.

The marine lowered his hand and blinked several times.

"Just call me Reaper." the marine insisted, hefting his axe on his shoulder. "And yes, I'm part of Special Operations Division."

Angus found it hard to keep his surprise bottled up. The show of this marine scything through dozens of religious fanatics still burning in his mind.

"You just tore through them like they were nothing!" Angus exclaimed. "And that axe is huge!"

Llewellyn gulped as he remembered how the axe came within an inch of his head. Close enough that he actually saw his reflection, eyes wide and terrified, on the polished blade.

"Close quarters is my speciality" Reaper revealed with a proud grin as he held up his axe. "And this is my weapon of choice."

Despite punching through a reinforced door, and uncounted amounts of armoured flesh and bone, there not a single scratch on the double axehead or even a nick on their edges. They could only think that the implements were forged out of some alloy strong enough to punch through an inch of hardened steel.

But what was more unusual was that the marine looked young. Too young to be part of an elite Spec Ops squad.

"How did a kid like you get recruited to OSIRIS?" Hansen questioned.

The marine's eyes narrowed in annoyance at the militia sergeant's question. Evidently, his age was a touchy subject.

"I'm not a kid." Reaper corrected with a hint of ire. "I just turned eighteen. As to my recruitment, that's confidential."

Being a member of Special Operations Division, the reasons for his recruitment were known only to OSIRIS. And OSIRIS is very particular in their recruitment. Often, recruits must have desirable traits and qualities, along with a distinctive personal record to be considered for recruitment. A perfect example is survivability against odds, often held with those who survived a xenomorph infestation or had defeated a yautja hunter in those rare cases of single combat when their code of honour demanded it.

But in his case, the reason was more... dark.

"Those fanatics sounded like they knew you." Hendricks pointed out. "They said 'The Butcher' while you were tearing through them."

Reaper lowered his axe at the mention of his 'title'. Clearly, it was a name that he detested.

"Lets just say I have a reputation with these bastards." Reaper tersely answered. "Stretches back a long way. Before I was born too."

He then hefted his axe on his shoulder as he got straight to the point on his rescuing of them.

"Now look, enough questions, are you going to come with me or not?" Reaper asked, pointing down the stairs. "There's still a whole colony to liberate. Plus, the Agent will want a debriefing."

With that, and with no other option, the militia and army troopers followed him out of the comms station. And when they saw the carnage that the Archangel had caused with their own eyes, Dane lost his fortitude and vomited over the railing, unintentionally adding to the mess. Everyone else were mildly nauseated and partially mortified at the sight. Even Hansen, with his experience in the marines and used to the sight of dead men killed in all manner of ways, was shocked to the point that he held a hand over his mouth.

The stairs and the walls and even the ceiling were littered with bodies and pieces of bodies, supplemented with streaks, splatters and pools of blood. And at the bottom of the stairs was a large pile of butchered cultists like something out of a slasher horror film. All that was missing was some stitched up frankenstein-esque creature to come crawling out of the pile. In fact, the tower now looked something akin to a blender that had just mashed up a meat smoothie.

This was nothing that no human could feasibly do. But it happened anyway.

"My god!" Angus exclaimed.

"He fucked up those zealots good." Hendricks added, prodding a bisected corpse with his boot.

"Mind the mess." Reaper called out further down the stairs, casually pushing a severed arm off the edge with his boot. "I tend to get carried away sometimes."


	10. Chapter 10

14:03PM

Outside the tower, it was a scene from an apocalyptic war, evoking No Man's Land from World War One, that greeted the surviving militiamen. Only now, with the threat of a horrible death averted, could they now take in the result of their defence. Tens of dozens of cloaked bodies laid still in the mud, riddled with holes from their weapons or torn apart by the awesome firepower of the Centurion. In the rain were also the remnants of the base's army personnel who were going about the gruesome business of clearing up the dead and searching for survivors. The dead cultists were simply being hauled and dumped into a large pile while their weapons were requisitioned back to their originally intended owners.

The Spec Ops marines, of which it was evident that there were two squads instead of one, were being very thorough in their searching, checking each and every body for any intelligence that could be ascertained. And any survivors they encountered were apprehended and hauled off to be interrogated. Those too wounded were simply dispatched with a clean shot to the heart or more cruelly through strangulation. An impromptu hanging so to speak.

And there were many wounded to deal with.

Further in the base, the prisoners that had wisely been left in their cells were freed with medics tending to them. Most of the colonists were thankful to have lived through the battle. The militiamen and marshals were thankful that they were not executed soon after when they were caught. Though they had no doubts that they may have been executed in some grand scheme.

"Why in the fuck do they keep running into bullets?" an army technician muttered, hauling a mangled corpse perforated with pulse round wounds onto the already massive pile.

"They're fanatics." A Spec Ops marine said with contempt as he dumped another pulse rifle against a wall. "They think their faith will deflect harm. And a real help that was in the long run." he

"Thank god it's autumn." another technician praised, holding an increasingly damp cloth to his mouth. "If it was summer, the stink would put the Aurochs to shame."

Reaper had by now reached the bottom of the stairs with his entourage and in the tower's foyer were the rest of Reaper's squad. Each of them were busy checking their gear and, for two of them, cleaning their swords. Each of them were dressed in the same manner as Reaper, but with different symbols on on them that denoted to their call-signs and also to their nationality. The polish captain, whose call-sign was denoted by his shield emblem as Guardian, was talking to the OSIRIS agent of Intelligence Division.

Intelligence Division is the main body of OSIRIS, tasked primarily with the acquisition of intelligence and technology for the defence of Earth and her colonies by any and all means. Aside from their main goal, Intelligence is also tasked with conducting espionage and other acts of a clandestine nature such as sabotage and assassinations. On critical operations, such as insurrectionist uprisings or blossoming xenomorph infestations, agents are often accompanied by Spec Ops squads and have the authority to requisition aid from any of the armed forces. Other times, when such a course of action was not required or the situation too volatile for armed force, they operate as part of a small group of operatives when a military presence would arouse too much suspicion.

The OSIRIS agent, a woman in her late twenties with olive skin, athletic build and shoulder length black hair, clad in a formfitting armoured bodysuit with a ballistics mask with tactical goggles that was hanging on her chest and a long hooded trench coat. The OSIRIS symbol was on her left sleeve and on the right was the Eye of Horus which one of was Intelligence Division's chosen insignias.

Each symbol represented their duty in keeping a close eye on unfolding events and also their quest for knowledge. One could say they could relate to different sections of Intelligence Division.

As Reaper led the militiamen and army troopers to his squad, the Spec Ops captain turned to him.

"Reaper, I trust you enjoyed yourself." Guardian greeted a nod.

Reaper simply hefted his axe off his shoulder and planted the blade on the floor with resonant clang. He then looked back at the pile of bodies behind him.

"Not one of my best." he humbly admitted. "Still, did the job nonetheless." He then looked to the OSIRIS Agent. "Agent, here are the militia for their debriefing." he introduced, indicating said individuals in question.

"Dismissed, Reaper." the agent ordered with a wave of her hand.

Reaper hefted his axe onto his shoulders and rejoined his squad, but not before going outside into the rain to wash off most of the blood on him. This left Militia Squad Beta and the army troopers of 3rd platoon to introduce themselves which they did with a bit of professionalism. Even in their battered state, they had a sense of decorum to uphold. Especially in the presence of a woman who held a position of high importance.

"Agent Olenna, Intelligence Division of OSIRIS." the agent introduced herself, before waving a hand behind her. "Please excuse the noise."

She was of course gesturing outside to the ongoing clean up. The pained yells of mercy from a wounded cultist was heard before a gunshot silenced him. Then the fresh corpse was heaved onto the pile and a loud tally was heard accompanied with a smart remark.

"Surrender?" a Spec Ops trooper scoffed, holstering his sidearm. "That fucker had the nerve to ask for surrender?"

"Didn't stop them from killing stragglers." one of the surviving marshals pointed out, kicking the fresh corpse with contempt. "That one slit a militiaman's throat after he surrendered. Even laughed as the poor sod choked on his blood."

Agent Olenna returned her attention to the militiamen and the army troopers. Another shot rang out as another extremist straggler was executed.

"As I was saying, excuse the noise." She repeated. "It has been a long and trying day. For all of us."

Despite that observation, she wasted no time in getting down to business. To the point of their presence on this frontier world and the unfortunate side effects it had brought. But first some congratulations were in order.

"Well, Militiamen and troopers of the Colonial Army, it seems you have proven your worth." Agent Olenna praised. "I have never seen so much carnage caused by some amateurs and garrison troops."

The agent then pointed to the remains of the Centurion which was now nothing more then a pile of scrap that was littering the foyer's floor. One of the Archangels, a burly Norwegian with a big red beard with the callsign 'Messenger' on his helmet, was sifting through the wreckage to pass the time. Every now and then he would throw a useless part over a shoulder and place an intact part into a neat pile.

"Especially the one piloting the Centurion." she singled out.

Llewellyn inwardly puffed his chest with recognition of his exploits. If not for him, the attack would not have succeeded as well as it had. It was a pity that the Centurion was completely blown to bits in the end. He had just gotten used to piloting it.

Maybe there was a chance for another Centurion?

"What was the death toll, Scribe?" Agent Olenna asked, not turning her eyes from the militia.

An Archangel, American as his flag told and the squad smartgunner with a pistol grip customised smartgun holstered on his servo harness' back, came walking up with his eyes locked onto the datapad he rapidly typing into. The parchment and quill symbol on his helmet was considered ironic regarding his position as a support gunner.

"Over two hundred dead cultists in a rearguard action." Scribe quickly calculated without taking his eyes off the pad. "Not a bad effort for civilians. The Centurion certainly gave them the edge."

"And the fact that you managed to send out a distress call at the same time showed quite the level of initiative." Agent Olenna added. "Highly commendable."

Hendricks stepped forward holding a hand up.

"Agent, with all due respect, what about the siege at the command centre?" he asked. "Did the Colonel survive?"

"Colonel Franz is perfectly fine. Considering the circumstances." Guardian assured. "Your sortie on the tower caused a lull in their attacks that allowed us to lift the siege and come for you."

"You should have seen him during the initial fighting." Scribe said, recalling the moment with clarity. "Cultists breaking into his office and there he was with revolver in his hand and calmly dropping them with one round to the heart each."

That was a source of relief and also pride to the army troopers. The sight of their commanding officer kicking ass in their minds was a significant morale boost.

"Of course he would, he's an Infestation Veteran." Hendricks added. "Hardest motherfuckers there are."

Indeed, the fact that anyone survived the Infestation of Earth, be it from the first outbreaks to Operation Extinction, was a testament to the survival instincts of the human race. Such individuals were highly valued for their experience in fighting xenomorphs and surviving against them. Many 'Infest Vets' have been found in positions of tutelage in the armed forces and beyond in the hopes that their skills would rub off on the younger generations.

Colonel Franz's posting to Amaethon IV was one such venture.

And while many soldiers would be lucky enough to survive an infestation afterwards, only those who survived the Infestation of Earth could rightly claim the title of 'Ultimate Badass'.

Hansen at this moment chose to ask a question himself. One that was about the insurrection in question and those who played the part of instigators.

"Are you going to tell us who these extremists are?" Hansen asked. "I've fought these zealous bastards many times in my thirty years in the Corps. But, I'm not familiar with this group."

The OSIRIS agent looked at the veteran with a stern look as her eyes locked onto him. Delving into sensitive information about one of humanity's most persistent thorns to it's side was against OSIRIS protocol. And also a cause for a 'visit' from the authorities.

"This cult is but a splinter of one of the main extremist groups we have eradicated three months ago."Agent Olenna curtly informed. "That is all you need to know."

And that was as much information that they were going get on the cult they had been fighting. But it did serve to inform them that at least this was not a massive cult. So there was no worry about suddenly having more fanatics appearing. They were facing the cult's full strength the moment the insurrection erupted.

"And by eradicated, you mean... him?" Angus asked, pointing to Reaper outside. "We saw him mopping the floor with them on the security monitors."

The marine had now removed his helmet to allow the rain to seep into his hair to wash out the blood encrusted strands. Surely, as much as anyone knew, such a ridiculous hair length was against regulations. But it did not appear that he was ever reprimanded for it. Maybe because of his skills that the infringement was simply set aside. And it certainly did not seem to impede him in a fight. Especially when he was carving his way through dozens of cultists up a tight stairway, wielding an axe nearly as big as him.

"For the most part, yes."Agent Ollena confirmed. "Reaper does tend to get carried away with his work."

'Carried away' was describing it lightly. 'Blood crazed' was a more accurate term. That provoked some unconvinced muttering from the group.

"But, as you are probably already aware by now, they had managed to send out a freighter containing ovomorphs, that's Eggs in layman terms, to this planet." Agent Olenna continued. "Unfortunately, it appears they chose this world on account of it's low military presence. Other worlds, in it's flight paths in other conditions like yours, were presumed to have been their target."

"So they outsmarted you?" Hansen asked credulously. "They outsmarted the brain boys at OSIRIS?"

"Misled." Olenna clarified with a slight tone of annoyance. "Too many variables. They covered their tracks too well in this instance."

"Though you should count yourself lucky that this was not the Brotherhood of The Flesh." Guardian praised, pulling his balaclava down and revealing a prominent scar stretching from his left cheek to his chin. "Those bastards are fanatical, even by extremist standards. And the closest to xenomorphs without actually fighting them. What with augmentations and all."

The Brotherhood of the Flesh was one of the most fanatical and most dangerous of all the Xenomorph Cults. Believing that the human body is impure, they take stride in replacing their 'corrupt flesh' with augmentations resembling xenomorph physiology or for the lowly zealots extensive tattoos and skin pigmentation to match the jet black sheen of their messiahs. And their method of operation was one of total destruction and death. Striking without warning and leaving none alive. None that was not used as hosts, that is.

The fact that they were so dangerous, even by extremist terms, meant that a specialised group known as Task Force Myrmidon was formed to combat them.

An Archangel came walking into the foyer at that moment. This one was evidently their sniper as his armour was festooned with camouflage panelling, a hooded cloak on his shoulders and an array of bullets, of various munition types, dangling from his belt and strapped to his thighs. He carried a large anti-material rifle on his shoulder, bolt action from its design, and the symbol on his helmet was a compass with an oversized arrow in the middle pointing north.

"Guide."Agent Olenna greeted. "Report."

Guide set his rifle's stock between his feet before lifting his visor. Sharp aqua eyes scanned everyone in the room before he gave his findings to the Agent.

"I spotted some stragglers hobbling deeper into the colony." Guide reported, russian by his accent. "It's safe to assume that they now know we're here and that will mean ambushes along the way."

This information led to a quick conclusion from Corporal Hendricks.

"They'll be bunkering down at the town hall." Hendricks guessed. "That's where they have hostages as hosts."

Agent Ollena turned to him, interested by what the trooper had to say on how he acquired such information.

"You are certain?" Agent Olenna asked.

"Oh yeah, my squad was posted outside and right in the thick of it when the shit hit the fan." Hendricks revealed gesturing to his trooper squad mates. "The four of us were lucky to get out of that death trap alive."

"And we were lucky to be right on the edge of the fighting." Hansen added, gesturing to his militia squad. "Fortunately, we had only the dregs to deal with. We stashed up our dead and wounded before heading deeper into the Caer."

That brought up thoughts from the militiamen about whether or not their squadmates had been discovered since their departure.

Agent Olenna nodded at their stroke of good fortune. They were fortunate that, unless under specific circumstances, xeno extremists couldn't hold the same candle to xenomorphs when it came to ambushes.

"Which is where we ran into them." Llewellyn added, pointing to the army troopers. "Saved our asses from being spotted by a patrol."

"Fortunate." Agent Olenna "But how did you come to acquire intel about their plans?"

"A visitor." Hansen said. "We had one cultist who was 'willing' to divulge their plans. Picked his brains so to say."

It did not take much for everyone to know what the veteran was suggesting from those choice of words. Especially when Hansen petted his empty knife sheath. Even the OSIRIS agent got the idea.

"And, after picking said brains, those plans are?" Olenna asked.

"Well, from what we were able to piece together, they intended to take the Caer when the garrison is on manoeuvres and away from the Caer. Attacking when opposition was lightest." Hendricks began. "Then, they would start gathering anyone they didn't kill and and offer them up as hosts. Then when the weather clears up, send them out on the freighters, the freighters will be turned into hives on their way to other worlds and that means an instant infestations upon arrival."

"And which was the reason for our plan." Hansen concluded. "If we get a distress call out, the Garrison would be alerted to the insurrection and return to deal with it."

But in the meantime, until the garrison returns, they would have to deal with the extremists in their own way.

"In which case, we have our work cut out for us." Guardian said, slipping his balaclava back on and hefting his pulse rifle in his shoulder. "Archangels, assemble!" He ordered, walking out into the rain.

His squad followed after him as they regrouped with Reaper, who had now slipped his helmet back on. The captain then briefed him on their next move and Reaper answered with a confirmation in a language that was unfamiliar with anyone. It sounded like ancient greek mixed with another dialect. The identity of which was a mystery as it did not sound like any language used in Federation Space.

One could only assume that it might be some kind of battle language.

Guardian also ordered Scribe to bring up a manifest on the freighters to determine their intended destinations. In order to send a warning to those worlds who were at risk. Just in case the cult launches any in the immediate future when the fighting resumed. If the extremists were playing it smart they may have a coven or two at the spaceport, waiting for the word.

Agent Olenna, foreseeing that the battle to come would be the bloodiest, then initiated a commonly used protocol whenever OSIRIS was in need of some muscle on such short notice.

"As of now, I am initiating the Conscription Protocol." She declared. "All remaining Colonial Forces personnel are now under my jurisdiction for the duration of this insurrection."

That assuming of command for an entire Caer did provoke some objections from the army troopers.

"What about Colonel Franz?" Hendricks asked. "Isn't he joining us for the fight?"

"Unfortunately not. He was wounded during the siege." Agent Ollena explained. "Broken leg from an I.E.D., nothing major but he cannot move on his own. But he had told me to "Give them hell'."

That reason was simple enough. The Colonel was unable to assume command due to injury so the OSIRIS Agent took the reins via Conscription Protocol.

The Conscription Protocol is one such power that OSIRIS possess. As the name implies, OSIRIS Agents have the authority to requisition military personnel and assets in their mission to ensure the safety of Earth and the colonies. In such a case as this, an Agent could practically conscript an entire planet if the situation calls for it. But there are certain exceptions to the rule.

Owing to the Militia's status as civilians and not professional soldiers, this did leave a loose end to tie up.

"What about us?" Hansen asked, indicating his squad.

Agent Olenna looked to them with a soft smile on her face. It was a rather reluctant smile. The kind that one would give if they had to do something that they would rather not. In this particular case, the agent would rather have professional soldiers for the task ahead. But, considering the circumstances, the Militia would have to fill in the gaps.

"Seeing as you had done so much already, you may sit this out. If any of you militia wish to join us for the push, by all means join us." she offered before she held a finger up in stern warning and her smile vanished. "But, and this is clear, you are not to interfere with our mission. The Patriarch is OUR target and we are going to be the ones to apprehend him, dead or alive."

That was a simple enough warning. It was not wise to be in the way of OSIRIS and their objective. They have leave to 'eliminate' any obstacles that they deem a threat to their mission. But, even with this subtle threat of death aimed towards them, the militiamen were already making up their minds.

"Been through the shit since it hit the fan." Hansen said, puffing his chest out with marine bravado. "I'm sticking through to the end."

Glenn on the other hand being full of shrapnel was in no shape to continue and Dane was reluctant to join in any more fighting, still shaken by the butchery that Reaper had unleashed, but was urged on by his squad. Angus however was willing to continue the fight, saying that this was the most excitement he has had on this ball of mud since day one. And Llewellyn was in the same state of mind.

"Since this was suppose to be my day off, might as well make the most of it." Llewellyn joked.

"Perfect." Olenna praised before addressing Hendricks. "Corporal Hendricks, consider your squad reinforced. And under Sergeant Hansen's command."

Hendricks confirmed with a salute. Now, his squad was reinforced past fireteam strength and was now in the hands of a veteran soldier of the Marine Corps. Not to say that he was upset by the sudden change in command but he'd rather be promoted to the position then fill in a gap. Like cracking an egg to plug a leaking radiator instead of properly sealing the hole.

"In which case, we need to requisition some fresh gear." Hansen asked, holding up his empty sidearm. "Not going to get far on empty mags."

"There should be more then enough outside."Agent Ollena assured, no doubt referring to all the recovered cultist weaponry. "Take your pick."

"Any chance of another Centurion?" Llewellyn asked, hoping for another shot at being a badass again. "I mean, we could use the extra firepower."

At that moment, Messenger came walking back into the tower, his back mounted comms unit buzzing with activity. The receiver was up to his ear as he was listening to a coded transmission.

"Unless you can retrofit a powerloader, you're out of luck." he answered as he approached Agent Olenna. "If they didn't blow this one to bits, I would've fixed it by now."he then focused on her. "Agent, incoming message." he reported, handing her the receiver. "Army wavelengths."

Agent Olenna took the receiver and held it to her ear as Messenger relayed the message. As she heard the coded transmission, a faint smile creased the corner of her mouth. She then handed the receiver back to Messenger.

"The air force is on their way." Olenna revealed to everyone. "It seems that the army had received your distress call. They will be here within the hour."

She then began to walk outside into the rain, followed by Messenger as she left the newly reformed squad in the tower's lobby.

"You have ten minutes to gear up." she briefed the newly formed mixed squad, pulling up her hood and donning her mask. "I suggest you start now." she advised, her voice synthesised by her mask.

And with that, the remaining military forces of Caer Styfnig prepared for their long overdue counter offensive.

14:20PM

"It is time!" Benedict praised loudly, his voice echoing throughout the hall. "Time to commence our ascension to paradise!"

In the atrium, final preparations were being made for the blessed ritual of implantation. More platforms had been constructed around the hall's pillars for the hosts to come. Candles have been placed at specific points all around the hall and bowls of burning incense released sweet aromatic fumes into the air. A ritual of purifying the hall to its transition into a hive.

Already some of the the hostages were being man handled up onto the platforms before being bound against the nearest pillars. Mostly the fittest adults along with a few younger souls for added purity. They knew what what going to happen to them, having seen the mayor subjected to the same process. And of whom the facehugger was still attached to his face and pulsating almost in anticipation of new hosts about to be implanted.

The most resistant colonists required more cultists to hold to the pillar and a few had suffered injuries such as kicks to the face and even a bitten arm. Eventually, they had started resorting to binding them up like unruly cattle. The most resistant had to be physically knocked out.

"Resist all you like. It won't do you any good." Benedict assured. "Your duty calls and God must be obeyed."

"Fuck you!" a defiant colonist shouted back, only to be silenced with a punch to the face.

Benedict waved his hand dismissively as the dazed colonist was shoved against the pillar before another cultist rushed in with rope and bound his arms outwards in the cruciform position.

"People these days are unappreciative of the gifts they're given." Benedict lamented as the colonists were being strung up.

Another scuffle was seen as a colonist managed to break out, kicking the cultist stringing him up in the teeth and began running for the door. Despite shouts of encouragement from his fellows, a couple of cultists managed to blind side him from their hiding positions by the door. Grabbing him by the arms, they dragged him back towards the plinth for his intended calling. But they got no further then a few steps as a shot rang out and the colonist's chest was blown open by a pulse round. Both cultists jumped as they got sprayed with blood before dropping the now dead resister.

And this was not a show of authority. Rather a misguided attempt to take the initiative by quelling a potential uprising.

Benedict muttered under his breath as he turned behind him and he saw one cultist with a smoking pulse rifle in his arms. The smoking gun in all it's glory. The cultist immediately realised his mistake when Benedict rushed up and cracked him over the face with his cane. The strike sending him sprawling to the plinth floor, his weapon skidding off the plinth and then the patriarch was on him.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" Benedict shouted at the cultist, continuing to brutally bash him with his cane. "We need every host we can get! HAVE! YOU! FORGOTTON! THAT!?"

The cultist was battered, bleeding and half curled into the foetal position by the time his beating was over. Benedict, though tempted to use his dagger on this ingrate, wiped his cane on the cultist's armoured vest and stepped back before waving his hand in summoning gesture.

"Get this worm out of my sight." Benedict sighed. "Assign him to the Martyrs and let him redeem himself. Can't possibly fuck that up."

Martyrs, A.K.A. suicide bombers, were often used by cults to dispose of any undesirables or overly eager members who may jeopardise the cult's stability. Depending on the size and nature of the populace, there could never be a shortage of 'volunteers'.

As two cultists rushed up to take their half conscious brother out of the Patriarch's vicinity towards his new calling, Benedict looked up to the heavens and held his arms out in a pleading measure. Beseeching God for some good news for a change.

"Oh Lord, Please shine some light on us?" he prayed, bordering on desperation. "Bring us good news?"

He was about to get his answer almost on cue with the sound of shifting wood.

The doors opened and a ragged band of cultists came limping in. Numbering around seven, they were for a lack of a better word 'Fucked Up'. Their clothing was mud encrusted, blood streaked with both their blood and others, and they were all wounded to some degree. The masked Praetorian in the front had a huge burn covering the right side of his body, his right arm was singed and blackened with the armour blasted away. Evidence that he was caught in a fiery blast. His ballistics mask was littered with scrapes that marred the intricate markings and a huge gouge at the edge from a lucky hit.

Benedict's mood immediately brightened when he suddenly remembered. He had heard that the gunfire and explosions had ceased over twenty minutes ago. That could only mean one thing.

God had answered his prayer.

"Ahh, our brothers have returned from their holy mission!" Benedict praised, holding his arms and cane up high. "Come, let us hear the news of your victory."

The battered cultists came hobbling up to the plinth. One clearly lagged behind, his right leg twisted at the knee and bound by a crude splint. The others looked as banged up with plenty of cuts, bruises and torn clothing and armour. The hostage colonists could see that things seem to have gone badly for them but Benedict was too caught up in his own excitement to notice.

"I expect to hear that the Militia has finally been eliminated." Benedict asked with earnest, eagerly rubbing his hands together. "You had the numbers to do it, I trust."

The cultists bowed their heads at the mention of their mission as the Praetorian stepped forward onto the plinth. Benedict could sense behind the mask that the Praetorian was nervous. However, he assumed it was just on account of his wounds.

His silence was starting to rub his patriarch the wrong way.

"Well?" Benedict asked impatiently, waving his hand with impetus. "Did you succeed?"

The Praetorian gulped inwardly as he gave his report.

"That centurion was taken down and we had taken back the tower. The militia were holed up in the comms station awaiting judgement." the Praetorian reported, wincing from his wounds. "But... things got out of control."

Benedict's smile left his face and was replaced with a grimace of annoyance with a dash of simmering anger. He took in a deep breath, holding his hand over his mask like he was rubbing his jet orb eyes.

"I'm sorry?" Benedict asked with malevolent intent, lowering his hand as he walked closer to the cultist. "I didn't quite hear that, say it again." he ordered, holding his hand to his ear for emphasis.

The Praetorian gulped audibly before he repeated his answer.

"It got out of control." he repeated before telling his leader the reason. "OSIRIS is here. Their Butcher wiped out everyone. We were slaughtered. We're the only ones who managed to get away."

God had just given the patriarch the big middle finger.

Benedict's hand clenched at the mention of OSIRIS having a hand in the battle. That could possibly mean only one outcome. His order of eliminating the militia, something that should have been so easy with massive numerical superiority, before they could call for help had ended up in utter failure. And by utter failure, it was the fact that nearly every single cultist sent, over two hundred strong, was slaughtered apart from the seven before him.

The mention of the 'Butcher', a name both renowned and feared among the faithful as was his father before him, gave him reason to believe that the cultists was telling the truth. And this truth was not one that Benedict had wished to be so.

"OSIRIS. The Butcher." Benedict repeated in a ominously calm tone, lowering his hand and resting it on his cane as he shook his head. "Oh, how I hate the names."

Faster then anyone could anticipate, and in stark contrast to his age, Benedict drew his dagger from his cane and stabbed the battered Praetorian in the neck with the speed and precision of a xenomorph. the cultist fell to the ground with a startled gargle as Benedict pushed hard before wrenching the blade out. The other six cultists hurriedly backed off as they watched their superior being gutted like a fish as the Patriarch released all the stress and anger he had been bottling up all day.

"YOU HAD ONE FUCKING JOB AND YOU COULDN'T FUCKING DO THAT!" Benedict screamed, driving the dagger again and again into the cultist's neck.

The last stab severed the cultist's head entirely from his neck with a sickening crunch. The blood began to gush out from the stump as the body slightly twitched as the nervous system completely crashed. Benedict stood up, grabbing the severed head by it's mask, before looking at himself. His immaculate robes were now stained red with massive blotches of the deceased cultist's essence of life on him. The symbolism and scriptures woven upon them obscured by the crimson deluge. And Benedict was unhappy to say the least.

"And you got your blood on my fucking robes!" he strained at now headless corpse.

The Patriarch then took a few breaths as he calmed down. He thought about the positive part of the cultist's report. That the centurion had indeed been destroyed was a result at least. Despite it being utterly redundant at this point. He then gave a relieved sigh, all the tension in his body gone, as he brought up the severed head, seeing the wide eyes of the cultist's last fatal moments behind the mask.

"But at least the centurion was destroyed, so you didn't completely fuck it up." Benedict said, tossing the head aside.

He took another deep breath as the head bounced on the floor before as he sheathed his dagger without cleaning it.

"Well, so what if over a third of our numbers had been eradicated so far?" he questioned to himself. "We still have our seeds to sow. And then our messiahs will bring us the salvation we deserve."

But despite this optimism, the facts were blunt in their practicality.

Because of the failed attack on the relay tower, two hundred plus cultists were now dead and rotting in the mud. Adding this to the numbers that had already been killed or wounded at the beginning of the insurrection and from the sporadic skirmishes that have been going on all over the Caer, the cult had taken a notable and possibly catastrophic drop in it's numbers in the span of just a few hours. And this provoked a serious need to reconfigure their forces in lieu of the inevitable counter attack that was to come.

The cult no longer had the numbers to fully control the Caer and all of it's districts. Spreading too thin in attempt to maintain control over the entire Caer would only lead to a collapse of their perimeter. Then again, if they massed all their forces in one area, being the town hall, it would be an easy target. A compromise needed to be made.

Benedict addressed some of his more able bodied guards, banging his cane's point into the plinth floor.

"Send the word." he commanded. "Consolidate our forces here in the inner districts and prepare our defences. Our time of testing is upon us."

Dispatching several cultists with his orders, the extremists began to make defensive preparations. And Benedict also had the pressing need to wash the blood off his robes. Already it was starting to coagulate and bring about an unpleasant stickiness as it clung to his bodysuit. He looked to all the colonists who were still not bound to the pillars and then then to those who were bound up on the platforms.

"We will resume our ceremony in good time." he told everyone as he walked off through the main corridor. "Please take this moment to confess your sins and make your peace with God." he advised, his voice echoing off the walls.

The colonists were instead using this time to pray that their saviours, be it OSIRIS or remnants of the Caer's garrison, would reach them in time. And, if not able to save them from their fate, to send all these extremists back to hell.

It was enough to restore an ember of hope in their hearts.


	11. Chapter 11

14:55PM

Out of the several hundred cultists left, only five dozen were present in the hall for sentry duty and logistics. The rest of the cult were situated outside, having consolidated their positions around the town hall and in the surrounding hab blocks. Barricades of vehicles and solid stone from razed buildings were being constructed to block off the streets and fortifying the structures around the town hall.

Positions throughout the Caer's outer districts where strongholds have been established had been stripped out and abandoned. And traps had been laid to main and kill any who tried to make their way through. Every resource stocked, or in many cases looted, and available for use was relocated back to the town hall.

All of the cult's military strength was to be now concentrated on the inner districts. Where the tighter quarters would play to their advantages in guerilla warfare. Any federation forces that try to fight their way through will be cut down in the streets and the alleys.

Having lost quite a sizable chunk of their manpower and equipment in the aborted attempt to stop the distress signal being sent, the cultists were now focusing of holding the town hall until the hostages had been impregnated and the first xenomorphs had been birthed and matured.

If they could succeed in doing that, the infestation could begin in earnest. And then nothing could stop them. Amaethon IV's remaining garrison, tiny compared to other worlds in the Frontier, would be no match for an infestation. And the remnants of the Colonial Militia that had been such a festering wound in their sides would be entirely inconsequential in the long run.

The only force that would pose a serious threat would be OSIRIS. But theirs was only a small presence. One intelligence agent and a squad of Spec Ops troopers. But the continued existence of their Butcher would be the biggest spanner in their machine's cogs.

In light of the recent setbacks, the cultists could not afford to take any more chances and let risks become too great. What with their schedule having to be radically altered to compensate for their drastic depletion of numbers.

In the meantime, the facehugger that had been bestowing Mayor Driscoll with it's precious cargo had since dropped off and it's dead carcass was taken away for ritualistic disposing. From the amount of time it had spent on implantation, it was apparent that the mayor had a drone implanted. If it was a higher caste xenomorph, implantation and gestation would take longer with queens taking several days to mature while lowly drones could take several hours or so. Stasis and even biological impairment, such as thyroid deficiency, however can cause varying degrees of deviation in the time required.

Hibernation sickness affected nearly anything with a nervous system.

The mayor was still strung up against the pillar, groggily rousing from his unnatural dozing to see his fellow colonists being strung up onto the pillars, resisting as hard as they could. Understandable when one takes into effect the end result of such a fate. Driscoll sluggishly rose his head as he felt the joints of his jaw throb. His throat was raw and a parched throat that begged for a soothing drink.

Common side effects after implantation.

More crates were being hauled up from storage to the pillars by the most burly of the cultists, each colonist having a crate placed in front of them. Some already had opened crates, and eggs winthin which began to peel open with a sickening squelch. And from within the ovomorphs, the facehuggers were on the prowl. Driscoll could only watch as the parasites latched to their intended hosts, muffling out their screams and yells and holding back his emotions as they fell limp.

Benedict noticed that the mayor was awake when he heard a loud retching from behind him. He turned to see that the Driscoll was busy voiding the contents of his stomach as nausea set in.

"Ah, you're finally awake." Benedict praised as he walked up as another scream was throttled out. "Just in time for the ceremony. Pardon the unexpected start. They're eager, you see."

Driscoll coughed loudly at the the Patriarch's jubilation, spewing phlegm and gunk from his lungs. An unfortunate by-product of implantation. One such lump came within an inch of hitting Benedict's shoe.

"Oh, do you have to be so crude?" Benedict scolded, waving his cane at the mayor.

Driscoll looked up at the Patriarch with a barely disguised scowl before spitting out another glob of congealed fluids.

"Be in my position and find out." he rasped, before coughing again. "Suppose to be your highest place of honour."

"As much as I would enjoy the honour, I have congregation to address." Benedict declined as he walked to edge of the podium.

Driscoll spat another glob of gunk in the patriarch's direction at that subtle refusal. He just missed getting it on the hem of Benedict's robes, much to his annoyance. Benedict in the meantime banged his cane loudly on the podium to get everyone's attention. The cultists in the hall ceased in their activities and paid attention to their leader.

"Brothers and Sisters." Benedict began, holding his arms up in reverence of He who resides in Heaven. "On this this day, we consecrate this building as the foundation of Paradise. The paradise that so many of our brothers and sisters had given their lives for." he began to pace along the plinth's edge. "But there are those outside, those who denies us what is rightfully ours. What our Father Salvaje had bestowed upon Earth was meant for all, only for the heathens to destroy it out of fear and ignorance."

He paused for dramatic effect, taking in the murmurings from his congregation before he continued. Even under such duress such as his carefully laid plans being foiled, he had a way to orate to inspire the faithful into action.

"But now thanks to our efforts, our sacrifices, on this world and many worlds to follow, Paradise shall be upon us!" Benedict proclaimed, holding his cane high in the air as he stretched out both arms in reverence to God.

The cultists in the hall erupted in a loud cheer, waving their weaponry in the air. Those colonists who were not yet strung up and hived only made their own objections noted. Some cultists who took offence to this were quick to silence dissent.

"But to do so, we must continue do our duty." Benedict reminded, gesturing to all the facehugged colonists on the pillars. "The Chosen need time to nurture the Messiahs into being. And by their sacrifice, salvation shall come!"

And then, as if to prove him wrong, a sound was heard coming from the heavens outside. But it was not the angelic sounds of angels ready to take the faithful to heaven. It was something much more blunt and mechanical.

The loud roaring of jets were heard as dozens of aircraft came from all directions, soaring over the town hall. Then, just as the jets left, the explosions were heard. The sound of buildings being bombed by rockets and gravity munitions. The ground shook and there were the unmistakable sound of screams being muffled by falling masonry.

While this would have provided a nice theatrical boost to any orator, this was not he kind that the patriarch had wanted.

"What the?!" Benedict exclaimed, looking around at all the bright lights that were filling the windows.

The doors to the town hall opened and a cultist came rushing in. a large fireball erupted outside, filling the doorway with orange light. And a light sprinkling of pulverised stone and mud followed him inside. The patriarch noticed his underling rushing up to him.

"What the fuck is going on out there?!" Benedict demanded.

"Patriarch, we're under air attack!" the cultist reported at the top of his lungs as he ran inside. "Airborne assault!"

This was the worst case scenario as an air attack could bypass their defences and directly attack them. Which was exactly what was happening and they had no dedicated anti-air weaponry with which to counter. But it was something to have been considered at one point of another.

Benedict smacked his cane over the nearest cultist's head to shake him out of his torpor. And if that failed, there was another ear shattering explosion coming from outside to rouse his minions.

"Don't just stand there!" Benedict shouted as the cultist rubbed his masked head. "Hold them off!" he then shouted to all the cultists in the hall. "HOLD THEM OFF! The Progeny needs time to grow!"

With that blunt encouragement, the cultists in the town hall abandoned what they were doing and ran towards their battle stations. Orders were shouted as Benedict rallied his followers for their final stand.

Those colonists who were not strung up for their intended role as a host were corralled back into the centre of the town hall. Benedict then gave the order that the hostages are to contained in the hall and perform summery executions if they give even the slightest sign of resistance.

If they would not serve as hosts, then can serve as sustenance to the xenomorph young.

15:25PM

Unfortunately for the cultists, the combined might of all the Caers of Ameathon IV was converging upon them. The unforeseen and yet blatantly obvious result of all the Caers coming together for training manoeuvres. Now, the troopers would be getting some actual combat experience. Never mind that it was against their own kind instead of xenomorphs or yautja hunters.

But on the plus side, they will not be as hard to kill as those alien races. They were not as stealthy as the Xenomorphs and they did not have the technological superiority of the Yautja.

Now the cultists were the ones who were outnumbered and outgunned as they scrambled to man their defensive emplacements. And all the while, explosives were raining down on them from the sky, coupled with the loud droning of engines. But, much to their credit, they created a simple but effective no-fly zone around the town hall. The invading colonials would have to fight their way through their defences.

First into the fray was of course was the Colonial Airforce. Having received their orders, they were on full afterburners in order to reach Caer Styfnig in time. Their objective was to clear out or soften up any defences that the cultists had set up and to capture advanced positions for the remaining grounds forces before they advanced into the inner districts.

The craft of the Colonial Airforce were not as streamlined as those used by the Colonial Fleet or the Marine Corps, but then the Airforce does not carry out inter-atmospheric operations in the first place. As such, their crafts are optimised to solely fight on planetary bodies and utilised both VTOL thrusters and rotor methods of propulsion for maximum versatility. Helicopters were also a lot cheaper and simpler to produce then jet aircraft. Suitable for worlds which don't have the tech base to manufacture and maintain more expensive technologies such as dedicated jet fighters.

Simpler but no less effective.

Sentinel gunships, dedicated ground attack helicopters, came soaring in on attack runs, their wing mounted rocket pods and autocannons spewing flaming and explosive death at the cultists manning the street barricades, blasting their fortifications into flaming mounds of scrap. The minigun nose turrets scythed through any exposed cultists with a long continuous drone of full powered rounds.

Thunderbird dropships, massive twin rotor transports, followed in from behind, their engines roaring loudly as the blades scythed through the air to provide the lift. These were designed to shuttle individual squads and light vehicles unlike their larger Roc cousins that could transport entire platoons and heavy vehicles. Those on the other hand had to deploy out of the confines of the Caer.

And, blasting through the sky faster then they could be tracked, Raptor jet fighters blasted through the rain, dumping their gravity munitions into hard points highlighted by the sentinels. And the cultists had no way of tracking these craft. They had no computer controlled or radar detecting defences.

Those manning emplacements on the streets, habs or the inner district's walls aimed their guns up to fire at the incoming gunships and dropships. Small arms were only minimal against the armoured aircraft and more of a hindrance whereas the heavier weaponry were more of a threat. Cultists fired RPGS at the incoming aircraft, the rockets arcing through the air and most missing by metres. Lacking proper anti air defences, the cultists had to make do with concentrated volley fire.

Like shooting at pheasants being flushed from the bushes. But with much bigger guns against birds of hardened metal.

One RPG fired from a knot of cultists holed up in a commandeered general store did manage to clip the wing of one gunship coming in on it's attack run, impacting just short of a rocket pod but still inflicted enough force to blast the wing apart. The attack craft spun round as the pilots worked their remaining jets to compensate and slow the plummet, the pivoting jet ports flaring brightly. The cultists on the ground continued to fire at the stricken gunship with renewed fervour and shouts. Until they realised that the attack craft was plummeting right towards them.

A typical response. If being shot down with no avenue of escape, try and take the shooters out with you in as kamikaze run.

The gunship crashed right into the emplacement, crushing the cultists into a bloody stain into the mud. The craft then skidded into a hab with a loud crash of stone, wood and metal. Despite such a hard landing, with the rotors being sheared off by the more sturdy support beams, the gunship was more or less intact thanks to it's heavier armour. Or at the very least the occupants were still breathing.

The cockpit's cracked canopy opened up with the cracking of explosive release bolts and the pilots inside began to disembark. Both were battered and scratched from their near death experiance but compared to the cultists who were crushed underneath the gunship's bulk or under the debris of the now ruined hab, they were completely fine. But they made their displeasure known as they grabbed their compact PDWs from their mounts.

"That'll teach you fucks to wreck my bird!" the pilot shouted, hopping out of the cockpit and kicking an exposed arm in front of him.

Back outside, things were going downhill quickly for the cultists as the zealots began to withdraw. Despite the resistance they were putting up, coupled with their more fanatical zeal from some of their number, it was no match for the Colonial Army's superior weaponry and equipment.

When the outer emplacements were pounded into rubble with high explosive rockets and shells, dropships hovered over the ruins as their doors opened and cables spilled out. Cultists who had survived the bombing runs rushed out to fire at the approaching dropships before they could deliver their payloads of professional soldiers. But their small arms fire was having little effect against the armoured aircraft.

Airborne paratroopers began to abseil from the hovering dropships as the door gunners laid down covering fire from their smartgun mounts. Bullets and pulse rounds whizzed through the air as the paratroopers peeled out from their landing zones and they engaged the cultists. The cultists outside the perimeter, having been out flanked and surrounded on all sides, were mercilessly cut down in a brutal pincer movement. And in light of what had happened at the beginning of the insurrection, with so many comrades slaughtered before they knew what was happening, the paratroopers were not taking any prisoners.

In fact, those who did try to surrender out of desperation were simply shot on the spot. The cultists knew they had to win or they would face certain execution for their crimes.

But unfortunately, as history had repeated many times in human history, Xenomorph Extremists do better when they do not fight fixed battles. While they can be an effective guerilla force given the right circumstances, if they had to fight in a conventional military context, they simply did not have the training and discipline needed to confront the Colonial Defence Forces.

The remnants of the militia and the army garrison, eager for revenge for their previous ass kicking, were leading the ground attack, bolstered as they were by the Spec Ops marines who were spread among their flanks. Cultists who were trying counter attack by using the buildings as cover from the gunships were thwarted by these elite troops.

Reaper, on point as to his position as Point Man, was in his element as he swung his great axe around, leaving cleft bodies in his wake. The mere sight of the Butcher from OSIRIS and his large axe in hand was causing the less disciplined cultists to hurriedly vacate their positions.

Some of the more hardened praetorians in the ranks were shouting orders, trying to get their subordinates to hold their ground. In the end, some summery 'discipline' had to be implemented to maintain cohesion. But that as far as they would get.

Reaper rolled over the nearest barricades on the main road leading to towards the town hall, his axe swinging through the air and slicing limbs as he landed on his feet. Two cultists, missing most of the arms, fell into the quickly blood enriched mud while screaming at the top of their lungs. They were dispatched in quick measure. Several more cultists rushed at the soldier, intending to swarm him and gut him with their daggers while they had the advantage of numbers. But they were no match for such a hardened and elite soldier.

In rush of whistling blades, slicing of flesh and arcs of blood, Reaper parried and cut down the rushing cultists in quick and brutal succession. Those few who were wise enough not to attack, namely the praetorians who had ordered their brethren to die pointlessly, tried their luck at fleeing. But as they frantically vacated the premises, Reaper was right on their tail like a lion chasing a herd of antelopes.

"DON'T YOU FUCKING RUN AWAY FROM ME!" he yelled, holding the blood streaked axe above his head as he chased them. "DIE WITH HONOUR, YOU COWARDS!"

The screams of terror that the cultists made as he closed the distance spoke clearly of their fear of him. But no sooner did they and the marine fell out of sight behind a hab corner that the screams became even more vocal. Suffice to say, it was best left to the imagination as to how they were departing this world. A severed arm still clutching a firing carbine came flying out as emphasis to that fact.

The rest of his squad, no doubt used to his little rampages, continued on without him. He would regroup with them once he had finished eliminating his current targets. Something that they knew he always finished personally. And it was best to not get in his way whenever he got carried away.

With close air support strafing the enemy positions, the counter offensive was gaining momentum as the cultists began pulling back from their positions. Falling back to more secure holdings deeper in the Caer where their defences were strongest. There was nothing to be gained dying here.

In fact, the biggest danger that the colonials had to contend with were the Martyrs. Drugged up on stims and other illicit drugs and with explosives of various kinds strapped to themselves, their goal was simple as it had always been for centuries. Rush into the biggest group of soldiers they can find and detonate said explosives. And these were the most fanatical of the cult. A literal wild card and a useful distraction. But, fortunately the colonials were able to pick them off before they got too close to deal serious damage. But even near misses from those who got near enough took their toll as shock waves, shrapnel and flying body parts pelted into the colonials..

Militia Squad Beta, along with all the remaining militiamen and army troopers of Caer Styfnig, were moving along the roads and streets, linking up with the airborne troopers before moving into contested territory. And they were properly equipped and armed for such a venture. The haul of salvage from the cult's failed attack on the relay tower provided more then enough military grade weaponry to arm the remaining militiamen.

Sergeant Hansen was back into the game as he led his mixed squad through the streets. He had to admit that he missed the rush of leading an offensive after he retired from the Marines. The same thing could not be said for his squad, or more specifically Llewellyn, Angus and Dane. They were civilians after all. But they were still holding up against the stress of prolonged combat. If anything, the inclusion of handling more military hardware was a morale boost.

As they moved further into the Caer, they saw just how much destruction the insurrection had inflicted upon it. This was where the fighting and looting had been the most fierce. They had only just skimmed the surface when they ran into Hendricks and his squad. Most of the buildings had been razed until there was nothing but blackened husks where homes and businesses once stood. And they also saw the piles of the dead that the cult had expunged from the population. Comprised of colonial marshals, militiamen and anyone else they felt like murdering, all piled up like logs and stripped of anything of use or value.

A typical result of civil war. Conflicts in Africa and other developing countries during the twentieth centuries were prime examples of that. But there was no time to do anything about it. The dead would have to wait until the Caer was retaken.

As the counter offensive moved deeper into the Caer, so too did the resistance they were facing. The cultists had evidently chosen their defensive positions well. Choosing locations which offered maximum visibility in all directions and also solid construction so as to withstand prolonged bombardment.

The squad had now taken cover behind walls in a square as gunfire from a high tower overlooking the square suppressed them. The tower's greater height was keeping them pinned down, hugging deeper into the mud for cover as bullets and pulse rounds impacted stone, concrete and mud just centimetres from the militiamen.

That was until the first armoured units came rumbling into the fray. Carried in by the thunderbirds and deployed into the newly secured landing zones, the M24A2 Raider light tanks rumbled into view on the streets. The size of a large truck with a four tracked chassis, a four wheel drive so to speak, the raider was the premier fast attack tank of the colonial armed forces. Designed for flanking and to exploit gaps in the enemy lines, the raiders were armed with maximum firepower and maximum speed in mind.

Primary armaments consisted of twin 40mm autocannons in a rear mounted turret operated by the gunner and forward mounted twin 50. cal machine guns for the driver. With it's gyro-stabilised mount and fast tracking targeting systems, Raiders also served as an effective AA vehicle should the need arise. Other armament options included a dedicated AA 20mm quad mount, mortars pods, missile racks and a heavy AT cannon for tank hunting duties. Their sloped armour plating was light as they would rely more on their greater speed for defence, but it was enough to protect against small arms and light AT weaponry.

When a squadron of raiders were on the battlefield, things can get chaotic very quickly.

"About time we had some armour support!" Hansen shouted over the rain, gunfire and the tank's engine as it rumbled into position in front of them. "Blow the shit out of them!"

The raider's turret aimed the twin cannons up at the tower even as the hull was being pelted with bullets. The cultists up in the tower stopped firing when they saw that the tank was aiming right for them. And they did not have any RPGs to counter. Before they could even duck, the raider fired a long burst from both guns. The high explosive shells ripped through the improvised fortifications and the cultists within, created a huge dirty plume of concrete dust, sparks and a red mist.

The tower then collapsed as it's damaged support beams buckled under the punishment. The whole structure imploded on itself in a loud cloud of dust, burying any cultists who may have survived the raider's barrage. That was the signal to push forward and the militiamen and army troopers did that.

With the raider tanks leading the way, autocannons and machine guns blazing away, the offensive was once more under way. Now the infantry had moving cover to take shelter behind as they moved deeper into the inner districts.

Llewellyn stopped in his tracks when he saw something that struck him to the core as they reached a familiar street. One he had just been down only the night before.

It was the Red Dragon Inn. And it had been ransacked completely. It's ornate wood panelling and stone work bearing the scars of fierce battle. And the sign that would normally hang over head had been blasted full of ragged holes. The red dragon slain not by St George's lance or sword, but rather by a zealot's bullets.

Hard to believe that only last night this had been a place of lively and drunken jubilations. And that brought up a thought that Llewellyn brewing in his mind.

Hansen noticed that Llewellyn had left the squad and was walking up the steps of the pub. Seeing him hug the wall with his marksman rifle poised, he made his questioning known.

"Llewellyn, what are you doing?!" he demanded, walking up towards the militiaman. "Get back in line!"

The militiaman only gave him a cursory glance as he moved inside.

"Getting some closure." Llewellyn answered as he walked through the doors. "Checking if..."

His words died in his mouth as he stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening under his boonie. He almost dropped his M5RA rifle. The whole pub was completely trashed. Tables were upturned and chairs broken into their constituent parts. The hearth was torn open as if by some eruption, likely some a stray grenade or improvised explosive. Broken bricks, smouldering coals and embers littered the scorched floorboards.

And there was also the dark sticky stains of dried blood on the floor and on some of the furniture too.

On any other day, it would have passed off as one hell of a bar fight. One which Llewellyn may have joined in if inebriated enough. But given the circumstances that had occurred, it was just another part of the war-zone that the Caer had become. One that looked to be in the thick of the fighting.

Llewellyn cautiously walked towards the bar, his boots crunching on broken tiles, glass and cracked floorboards. The bar too was completely wrecked as he slowly approached. Bottles of that various alcohols and spirits that kept the inn stocked were smashed and their contents coated the wall, shelves and the floor. Riddled with bullet holes.

The clear sign of a firefight. And an intensive one too. Possibly, and optimistically, there was militia in the tavern at the time of the attack. There were some signs that the inn was occupied at the time of the uprising, judging by the half eaten food on scattered plates.

Llewellyn leant over the bar, dreading what may be on the other side. But, there was nothing behind the counter, save for the sticky remnants of the alcohol stocks. There was no body of the landlord. Yet.

He got up from the bar and looked around for any sign of the proprietor.

"Horace!" Llewellyn called out.

The rest of his squad came walking in at point. And they too were shocked by the aftermath of the carnage that had been unleashed here.

"This is worst then that bar fight last year." Angus compared. "I should know."

"Yeah, you were the one to start it. By calling that farmer's wife a bloated auroch." Hansen reminded.

"She was!" Angus defended. "You saw the size of her rear?!"

Llewellyn ignored the bickering as he left the bar and began walking to the the corridor that led to the back rooms. Horace had to be there. But as Llewellyn walked into the corridor, he soon found that the fighting from the bar had spread here too. Bullets holes were in the walls along with streaks of blood where they had hit their marks. And patches of blood on the floor were streaked, indicating the bodies had been dragged out.

It would appear that the cultists had got the drop on the morning patrons. No doubt having mingled with them the night before during the revelry. It would be no surprise if they had been stabbed in their beds and no doubt asleep.

Llewellyn opened the doors to the rooms on this level to see whether or not Horace was in any of them. The rooms were all in a state of disarray, either from the fighting or the general tidiness of the occupants. And the amount of blood he found in some rooms hinted that some patrons were indeed murdered while they slept. He even checked the broom closet just to be sure. But it did not take him long to find the first piece of evidence of the innkeeper's fate. At the foot of the stairs that led to the next floor.

It was the shotgun that Horace had hidden under the counter. Normally used to discourage rowdy drunkards. A typical hunting shotgun with a vertical double barrel arrangement but with the barrel cut down for easier storage beneath the counter. The receiver was engraved with the traditional hunting motifs that were mildly worn with age. This shotgun was an antique in this day and age.

Shouldering his rifle on his back, Llewellyn knelt down and picked the weapon up. He quickly saw that was a prominent crack in the stock along the wood grain and also a thin spray of dried blood. Possibly from being used as an impromptu club against the cultists. Thumbing the break-action lever and pulling the barrels down, they snapped open and two spent shells pinged out, rattling loudly on the floor.

It had indeed been fired. And, seeing the blood stains on the wall's wooden panelling that was peppered with little holes in a distinctive silhouette, it had taken down it's target. Both barrels too. Looking further down the corridor, he saw the edge of a blood spill behind the corner that led to the storeroom.

He followed the blood trail and when he saw the end, he held a hand to his mouth.

It would appear that Horace had went down during the initial fighting. The large ox of a man was found propped up against the wall, wearing his usual chequered shirt and apron attire. His head was down on his chest, limp and lifeless. A large sanguine stain had nearly dyed his whole shirt red. And there was a whole multitude of stab wounds on him. Mostly in the torso, in areas that would not have caused a quick death.

Llewellyn knelt down next to the deceased innkeeper, pulling his boonie from his head in a gesture of respect. Hansen and the rest approached and saw the remains of Horace for themselves. Angus too pulled off his pompom-less beret off.

"Looks like he went down fighting." Hansen surmised. "Took a lot of knives."

He then noted some of the stab wounds were at particular regions. Wounds which were meant to incapacitate then kill. A slow and very deliberate death. Like they were wanting him to suffer.

But there was another question. Where was his wife?"

The blood trail that Llewellyn followed continued on past Horace's body. Out the back into the storage area and cellar. This was brought a horrid thought as Llewellyn followed the trail, the rest of his squad following him.

The cellar's door was wide open, it's lock and hinges smashed and that was where the blood trail ended. This was where Horace was standing when he was attacked before being dragged to the wall. There was no light coming from the cellar. Llewellyn reached the top of the stairs, switching his rifles flashlight on and then shining it down the stairs. And then wished that he had not.

"Oh fuck." Llewellyn said, his shoulders slumping.

At the bottom of the stairs was the body of Horace's wife, Ellen. Bloodied and bruised, it looked like she had assaulted, in more ways then one, before she had been murdered. And by the large pool of blood she was laying in, she had her throat slit. Not a good way to go.

"Looks like she was dragged down there." Angus said. "And had their way with her."

"And made Horace listen as he bled out." Llewellyn surmised. "Bastards."

"Nothing we can do for them now." Hansen said, shaking his head. "Gotta retake the Caer first."

At that moment, they were ambushed. A crazed cultist came barrelling down the stairs that led to the hotel rooms, dagger held up high and a half sane yell on his lips. His pupils were dilated and his mouth was frothing, indicating that he was in fact high off his mind on whatever drugs the cult had given him. A clear indication that he was one of the martyrs just waiting for the right moment to strike.

And perhaps a bit of tactical thinking on the cultist's part, the target for the stabbing was sergeant Hansen. The rest of the militiamen, believing that an explosion was immanent, frantically evaded the crazed fanatic out of reflex diving into the nearest rooms. But, thank god for them, the martyr was not wearing actually a bomb vest.

Hansen was able to put his pulse rifle between him and his attacker as the fanatic crashed into him, the dagger just coming within an inch of his eye. And, owing to the sergeant's location, he fell backwards from the impact and down into the cellar, taking the cultist with him. Both militiaman and cultist went tumbling down the stairs, the steps creaking under their weight as they bounced down in their desperate grapple. They hit the bottom hard and a loud bony snap was heard. Then all was silent.

The militiamen, having realised that there was no boom after all, rushed to the stairs, shining their lights down into the cellar and found both Hansen and the cultist laying in a heap at the bottom of the steps. Unmoving, possibly injured or even deceased.

"Sarge!?" Dane cried down the steps.

"Sarge, you alive?" Angus asked.

They got their answer when they heard irate mumbling coming from one of the bodies. Hansen picked himself up, cradling his left arm and cursing under his breath. Blood was dripping from between his fingers from a deep cut in his forearm, near the elbow. Baring this wound and the bruises he got from falling down the steps, he was fine.

The martyr on the other hand was limp on the ground, limbs twisted and his head was in an abnormal position. And by abnormal it was almost turned completely around. And the sergeant could still see the maniacal drug induced grin on his face.

"I'm fine." Hansen called out, bending over the dead cultist. "Stupid fuck broke his neck on the way down." he said, clenching his teeth as he climbed the steps. "Utterly useless."

Back up top, Hansen had his wound quickly seen to by Dane. It was a deep and slightly ragged cut, likely from the cultist's dagger and was bleeding quite profusely, no doubt having nicked an artery. The medic pulled out a canister of med-gel from a pouch, shaking it and sprayed it into Hansen's open wound. The gel latched onto the exposed tissue, provoking a hiss from the sergeant as it expanded into foam. Within seconds, the antiseptic gel had expanded into the wound and made a firm and solid seal against further damage and infection. This was then covered with a bandage for added protection.

"Fuck, I forgot how much that stings." Hansen said, clenching his fingers as he felt the anaesthetic slowly kick in.

"And it'll leave a scar." Dane added, holstering the canister.

"Just another to the collection." Hansen retorted, patting his other arm. "I think we can call this place cleared."

With that farcical attack over, the militiamen had no other reason to hang around. Bar one. Llewellyn picked up Horace's shotgun again on the way out from the corridor before going back behind the bar. After a moment of searching, remembering the last time Horace evicted drunken hooligans, he found the box of shells and placed it on the bar. He then loaded both shotgun barrels before snapping the breech shut and pocketed the remaining shells in a webbing pouch.

"Right, lets get the rest of the bastards." he said, holding the shotgun high. "Horace is due some kills."

Back out in the rain, the militiamen could see that Hendricks and his army troopers were lounging on the porch, taking a breather from the fighting and counting their grenades. More militiamen and paratroopers were moving about outside as more raider tanks came rumbling through.

Also rumbling to sight was one of the M75L Dragoon APC, a light variant of the standard M75A1 Taurus APC used by colonial forces. Much like their historical namesake, dragoons are designed to rapidly transport troops from one location to another. With six wheels and gyro-stabilised suspension, they were able to traverse difficult terrain with ease. Faster then the taurus but not as armoured, dragoons are the transport of choice for rapid response squads. And their weaponry were optimised for hard hitting insertions.

And they were the first of the dedicated ground forces to arrive in the Caer. On Ameathon VI's perpetually muddy terrain, dragoons were the preferred transport to avoid ending up like a stuck pig.

The inner districts were now more or less back under Federation control. With more and more dropships and APCs streaming into the Caer, the cultists were getting hopelessly overrun. Each emplacement and strong point taken down was widening the gap in their perimeter. Gaps that the invaders were exploiting. And exploit them they did, conduction rapid insertions of more troops and armour to support them.

Those cultists with the tactical initiative pulled out from their positions before they could be enveloped.

The Archangels at that point began to peel away from the main force. With practised and professional ease, and a silent series of hand signals from Guardian, they slipped into the ruins of building and out of sight. The other squad of Spec Ops marines however stayed with Agent Olenna, no doubt being her dedicated squad.

Already, there was the inkling that the next phase of the offensive was to commence.

"Where are they going?" Hansen asked as Ollena approached them.

"The Archangels are infiltrating the cult's position on the town hall." Olenna revealed. "They should have the building secure by the time we reach them. Or at least taken out the majority of the enemy."

After a brief interlude to catch their breaths, resupply and plan the next phase of their strategy, the colonials pushed further into the Caer. They will continue to approach the town hall at their present pace. Create as much as a distraction as they could to facilitate the Archangel's infiltration. The more forces that they could draw out from the town hall, the less resistance the elite Spec Ops squad would face. And the sooner they could take out the cult's leadership, the Patriarch, the sooner the rest of the cult would be eliminated.

Cut the head off the snake and the body dies.

But then, animals fight harder when backed into a corner. And the cult was living up to that with increasing desperation and zeal. There was no escape as the noose was drawing ever tighter around their figurative necks.


End file.
